Verisimilitude (Rewrite)
by cdog0803
Summary: Alana Storm, bastard of Renly Baratheon, goes north with her family to name Eddard the Hand of the King. There, she finds friends, as well as love. However, war is on the horizon, and with it, something dark and evil. Robb/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Thank you to everyone who is reading this, whether you read the original or not. I'm trying to write a lot more, so hopefully I'll be able to update more frequently. I'm much more pleased with this story than any of the other ones. Enjoy!**

Chapter 1

The Sept was lit by the morning light that filtered through the windows high up on the brightly painted wall, as well as by the candles piled around each statue of the Seven, the candles already burning low despite the early hour. The sun was just barely cresting the horizon, painting the sky and the sea it rose over in shades of orange. Alana didn't have time to watch the sun rise, the more devout followers of the Seven usually filtered into the Sept as soon as the sun had cleared the sun had cleared the horizon and had only just finished lighting the candles. She still needed to make certain that the Sept was ready for visitors.

Not for the first time, she cursed her pride, and everything else that had brought her here.

She had made a deal with her father that so long as he didn't make her spend the day knitting or sewing with the rest of the ladies of King's Landing ("I'm not even a real lady," she had complained, and Renly pursed his lips like he always did whenever Alana brought up her illegitimacy. She didn't need anyone to tell her that he was embarrassed she was a bastard, he told her well enough with his reactions, with his winces and heavy sighs when he thought she couldn't hear), she would keep herself occupied at the Great Sept of Baelor, setting up the candles and making sure that the books were all organized correctly in the boxes at the back of the Sept. _The Seven-Pointed Star_ went on the top (the words on the leather cover gilded with real gold), as the sermon began with the Septon reading from it, passages praising the glory of the seven. In the middle of the pile was the copies of _The Song of the Seven_, similarly gilded but this time with golden thread rather than actual gold. Lastly, on the bottom, was a singular copy of _Maiden, Mother, and Crone_, purchased only because Alana had found it from a book merchant at Flea Bottom, and proceeded to demand the High Septon to buy it. It was a small victory, Alana knew, but futile, knowing that the majority of those who attended the sermons couldn't read, but Alana would sometimes be fortunate enough to get a chance to read from it to young children as their parents prayed. They would sit around her in a circle, one sitting on her lap, as she read to them, children of noblemen and peasants alike, all sitting wide-eyed and smiling.

"Here already, Alana?" came a familiar voice behind her. Alana set down the last candle at the base of the statue of the Stranger and turned around to see the High Septon, bleary-eyed and yawning, his crystal crown tilting dangerously to the side. "I thought you didn't come in until after the sun had risen."

Alana shook her head, feeling her long black hair swing behind her, tied up in its braid. "If I come in that late, I'd be forced to rush in order to get everything ready in time."

The High Septon yawned again noisily, raising a hand to cover his mouth a half second later. "I can't possibly imagine getting up so early. I envy your youthful energy."

She shrugged. "It's just a simple matter of going to bed early and rising early. It might be in your best interests to consider trying it."

At this the High Septon laughed and shook his head, so hard the crystal crown threatened to fall over. "I could never fall asleep early enough to wake up at this time and feel well rested. I'll leave that up to you. Keep waking up at whatever time allows you to keep up the good work." At that, he turned around, his white and gold robes flowing at the sudden motion, his sandals slapping loudly on the marble floor.

"Wait, Ser…" her voice failed her as stumbled over what to call him. He wasn't a knight, so she couldn't call him Ser, and he wasn't a lord. The High Septons, after ascending to the office, will give up their names and simply be known as "The High Septon."

"Yes, Alana?" He didn't stop, simply continued walking across the altar, forcing her to jog to catch back up to him. _He has short legs_, Alana noticed, as she was able to catch up to him in just a few short strides.

"I was thinking," she began, now that she was walking next to him, "Maybe we should get another copy of _Maiden, Mother, and Crone_. The only one we have is starting to get a little worn, and it-"

"I'm going to stop you right there, Alana." He reached the altar, between the statue of the Crone and the Stranger. "We're pressed for gold, and the books are not a major part of our sermons. Most of our visitors can't even read, and the rest don't want to. The only books we need are for me to read to them, and we only need one copy for that. The one we have will do fine."

"But you recently bought a whole new set of golden incense holders," she protested.

"Because it's important that the commoners see the power of the Faith, and the beauty of the gods," he explained, his patience infuriating to Alana. "If the Faith is to appear weak, we would lose followers, or be open to heresy."

Alana bit back a retort that sprung to her lips, begging for her to spit it out at him, to put him in his place. "I see."

The High Septon patted her on the arm and smiled. "I'm glad you understand. Would you mind moving my podium over here? Today's sermon focuses on how death is a natural part of life, and I feel that that is best personified through the Crone and the Stranger. Afterwards, I need you to pick up the candlesticks from the blacksmith at the tip of the street of steel. There are quite a few of them, and they are bound to be heavy, so you ought to bring a horse to carry them." Without waiting for a response, he began to walk away, adjusting his crystal crown as he went.

What went unspoken was that in addition to moving the podium, a heavy wooden stand that would be a pain to drag all the way across the hall, she would have to rotate each one of the pews to face where the Septon planned on speaking. Alana sighed, raising her head to look at the statue of the Stranger, desperate for anything to allow her to stall from the task at hand.

The statue stood tall, easily three or four times her height, carved from stone and painted by the finest artisans in all of Westeros. The Stranger looked like a man, wearing black robes carved so well that they looked as though it was made real cloth. He had short black hair underneath his hood, and eyes that were so dark they looked as black as his robes.

Alana had been to Storm's End before, several times, in fact, though she hadn't stayed very long on any of the occasions, with Renly always needing to return to advise Robert as a the master of laws of the small council. The Sept at Storm's End didn't have a magnificent marble statue of any of the Seven, but instead had a painting of each one. Whoever painted the Stranger had depicted him as a grinning skeleton, its bones withered and dried and cracked, portrayed as a being that took pleasure in taking lives.

_It's a small comfort to think of something like that taking your father or mother's life,_ Alana thought. But this one was different. The statue looked like someone one might come across on the street, as a pilgrim or a brother of the Faith. Alana sighed again, and turned around, her dress splaying outwards at the motion, and she began to make her way towards the podium, preparing across the room._ We spend so much time worrying about what will happen after we die, that we forget to truly live, she thought._

* * *

_"How long do you think you will remain here?" The High Septon asked, as Alana finally finished carrying in the box of books the Septon had shipped all the way from Andalos, supposedly the birthplace of the Faith of the Seven._

_ "My father said so long as I continue to help, I can continue to come here." Alana made a face. "My other alternative is sewing with the queen and her friends."_

_ "You are helping, considerably so." He began to thread his hands together, as though he were making a decision. "Would you consider a position as a septa? You are doing so well, especially with the children. You could come here and help every day."  
Alana froze. She had never considered becoming a septa before. She would be able to read to the children every day, and would be able to assist the High Septon. It's not as though Renly would ever be able to convince anyone to marry the bastard daughter of a third son. She had no duty to advance her family name. "I've never thought about it," she confessed._

_ The High Septon nodded. "Well you'd start off as a silent sister, to get closer to the Stranger. However, you would not have to remain silent forever. You could then become closer to one of the gods, be it the Smith, the Warrior, or the Crone."_

_ "That sounds wonderful." Alana was beginning to get excited, her lips tugging upwards and her heart beating faster. She could ask Renly to give her his blessing as soon as she got home, and she was sure he would. She could see herself in the future, standing in front of a crowd of people who have come hundreds of leagues to hear her speak. She would make them laugh, make them cry, and make them think. Alana wanted this. She wanted this more than she had wanted anything else before in her life. Suddenly, an idea occurred to her. "Do you think I could one day be a High Septon?" She could be the very first female High Septon. The thought sent shivers down her spine._

_ The High Septon chuckled and ruffled her hair. "Of course not, silly."_

_ Alana felt her chest tighten at his words, and she swallowed hard, her smile long since forgotten. "Why not?" she asked, devastated. _

_ "You're a girl," the High Septon answered, as though it explained everything. "Girls have an equally important job. They birth the next kings and high septons." He patted her on the arm as though he didn't just crush her very hopes and dreams. "And you'd make a great septa," he concluded, smiling down at her._

* * *

Alana arrived back at the Red Keep after the sun was high in the air, not quite noon, but close. She had left when the High Septon had begun his sermon, his monotone voice droning on behind her as she mounted her horse and rode away. Her mouth watered at the thought of her usual breakfast, a meal of crispy fried fish and boiled eggs, along with a goblet of milk. She had left so early that she hadn't had a chance to eat breakfast, and had gone so far with an empty and growling stomach.

Renly was waiting for her at the gates of the keep, his hands on his hips as he watched her approach. "Morning, father," Alana greeted with a smile, dismounting her horse and handing the leather reins to a servant waiting beside her. "Shouldn't you be inside having breakfast?"

"Am I not allowed to greet my daughter?" Renly asked, smiling and putting his arm around her shoulders. "How was working at the sept today?"

Alana shrugged. "It was fine. The High Septon was infuriating as always."

"I always thought he was far too air-headed for his own good. Being chosen to be the High Septon didn't help one bit." The two of them entered the Great Hall, and Alana waved over a servant to bring her usual breakfast.

"What have you been doing today?" she asked conversationally as she plopped down at an empty seat.

Renly sat beside her and sighed. "Most of my morning was spent being lectured by Robert on the importance of an heir to Storm's End." He made a face. "That reminds me, Robert desperately needs a new Hand. He's been taking the death of Lord Arryn very hard. We're leaving for Winterfell tomorrow."

"So soon?"

Renly nodded. "Have you decided whether or not you are going?"

Alana had had plenty of time to decide, but instead of weighing her options she had forgotten about it entirely, choosing to push it to the back of her mind. "I guess I'll go," she decided. "It will be awfully lonely in King's Landing without uncle Robert and his court."

Renly smiled and squeezed her shoulder. "That's wonderful. I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time there."

"Maybe," Alana responded doubtfully. "Maybe." A sudden realization came over her, filling her body with dread. "I have to go," she announced, standing up so fast her chair was sent skidding across the scuffed wooden floor, teetering and threatening to tip over. "I need to pick up the candlesticks from the blacksmith." After she had moved the podium and rotated all of the pews, she had been so eager to leave that she had completely forgotten the High Septon's request that she retrieve the order from Tobho Mott's shop. It was a name she had heard before, recommended to others as the best smith in King's Landing, possibly in all of Westeros.

Renly sighed. "I suppose this is what I get for thinking I might have a chance to have a conversation with you." He waved his hands, shooing her towards the door. "Go. The sooner you leave the sooner you can come back. I'll have them keep your breakfast warm."

Alana nodded and sprinted out the door, scarcely avoiding a brown haired servant carrying a tray of food that smelled so good it made her want to forget all about the High Septon and the candlesticks, her feet slapping the floor as she raced towards the stables. If she hurried, she could be there and back in less than an hour, she decided. Provided there was no distractions, that is.

* * *

"_How was the sermon today?" Renly asked, entering Alana's room. She was lying on her stomach on her bed, her face buried in another one of her books. She was still too young to go all the way from the Red Keep to the Great Sept of Baelor on her own, so he had had Ser Richard accompany her. Under his orders, however, the man was not to help Alana in any of her duties, only to follow her around and make sure she stays safe. If she was serious about helping out at the Sept, he would allow her to skip spending time with the other ladies of King's Landing, sewing and gods know what else up in the Maidenvault._

"_Not good," she responded plainly, not even looking up from her book. "The High Septon was an ass." Renly sat on the bed next to her and leaned over, reading the title, The white lettering a stark contrast against the black of the cover._

"_Lineages of the Noble Houses of Westeros?" He read, straightening and looking at her. At last, she rolled over to look up at him, tucking the book next to her, her finger still between the pages to save her spot. "What could possibly be so interesting about the nobility. All they do is marry someone they don't love, spend the rest of their life avoiding them, and then die."_

"_I think it's important I understand my heritage," Alana explained haughtily, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I am a Baratheon, at least by blood, and I think I should know about my ancestors."_

"_May I?" Renly asked, taking the book from her after she nodded. He flipped open to the page she had saved and began to read, his eyes skimming the faded black ink. "Physical characteristics of house Baratheon," he read. "Lord Boremund. Black of hair, blue of eye." The further down on the page he went, the darker and newer the ink was. He skimmed down a few lines. "Ser Lyonel Baratheon. Black of hair, blue of eye." He looked up from the book. "What am I supposed to learn from reading this?"_

_Alana sighed and took the book from his hands. "Every other member of house Baratheon has had black hair and blue eyes. That includes you, uncle Robert, and uncle Stannis. I'm the only one with brown eyes."_

"_They're your mother's eyes," he said slowly, careful not to tell a blatant lie to his daughter._

"_And they're the only thing I have of her. There are no paintings, no letters, nothing. You never talk about her. And I know she's not dead," she added as soon as Renly opened his mouth. _

"_Your mother loved you very much," Renly began, pushing Alana's hair out of her face. "She was the daughter of a Myrish Magister."_

"_I'm Myrish?" Alana asked, her eyes wide in surprise, raising her arm and looking at it, as though she might see some sort of identifying mark that would confirm what Renly was saying. "I thought Myrmen had darker skin than Westerosi."_

"_Sometimes," Renly admitted. "Your grandmother, on her side, was also Westerosi, so her skin was much lighter than any Myrman's. She had the dark eyes of her grandfather, and you have her eyes."_

_Alana was transfixed, sitting upright now with the book forgotten on the floor. Renly _never_ spoke of her mother. "What was her name?"_

_Renly was struck with a sudden pang of guilt that Alana never even knew her mother's name. "It was Serala. Serala Faye."_

"_Have you sent her any ravens? Have you had any contact with her at all?" She clearly had a thousand questions for him, she was dying to ask them all._

"_I haven't spoken to her since she gave me you." He tried to ruffle her hair but she jerked her head away, not willing to be distracted. "But she first came to King's Landing to personally deliver a shipment of her father's best crossbows. She delivered them to the king, and uncle Robert had just come into power. If anyone knew how to contact her, it would be him."_

"_Thank you, father." She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, before standing up and running out of the room, presumably to the throne room. _Father._ That was a name Renly didn't deserve. He sighed and rose from the bed. He had come into the room, hoping to be cheered up by his daughter, but instead found himself even more worn out._

* * *

Alana's knuckles rapped quickly against the ebony and weirwood doors of the blacksmith's shop, flanked on either side by a stone griffin and unicorn, wearing red suits of armor. The shop itself stood at the top of the street of steel, towering above the rest of the shops around it, casting a shadow over the cobblestone road.

The door creaked open, and a man with a thick beard gestured for Alana to enter, stepping aside. He was just shorter than Alana, but his arms were massive, thick and covered in a layer of hair. In fact, his entire chest was covered with dark hair as well, visible through the low neck of the brown shirt he wore under his leather apron. "How can I help you?" He asked once she was inside, watching her as she glanced at the room around her. The windows high up on the white stone walls lit the room, casting light on the chestnut brown floorboards. Behind an ebony counter stood his wares, swords sharp enough to break through a block of iron, and steel plate metal thick enough to stop anything. She could hear a rhythmic and muffled _clank_ of metal on metal through the walls.

"I'm here to pick up the candlesticks. The High Septon sent me," Alana responded, her voice disinterested, still distracted by the weapons.

The blacksmith, who Alana could only assume was Tobho Mott, nodded. "It's in the back. I'll lead you there." He approached the door to the forge, allowing Alana to enter first. "They were a waste of time if you ask me," he announced as they walked. "I make weapons, not trinkets. I tried explaining that to your 'High Septon,' but he wouldn't listen."

Alana let a wry smile cross her face as she heard this. "That does sound just like him. He wants nothing but the best for the Faith, no matter the cost."

"Damn fool," Tobho muttered under his breath. As they entered the forge, Alana was struck by a wave of heat from the furnace, as a black haired boy worked the bellows. "Gendry," Tobho called out, prompting the boy to stop what he was doing and turn around. "Where are the candlesticks?"

As soon as Alana saw the face of the boy named Gendry, her heart began to hammer in her chest. He looked exactly like Renly, with his icy blue eyes and dark black hair. _He's my brother_, Alana realized as she ran her eyes over his features again and again. There was simply no other explanation.

"I moved them to the storage room," he answered, his response simple and efficient. He ran a hand across his sweaty forehead, to push his wet black hair out of his eyes. "They were taking up too much space in here." He disappeared into a back room, leaving Alana alone with Tobho in the forge.

"You said his name was Gendry?" Alana inquired, acting nonchalant, as though she was trying to make simple conversation.

Tobho nodded, slow and thoughtful. "Gendry Waters is his full name." Alana noted that he was a bastard, like herself, and resolved to ask her father as soon as she arrived back at the Red Keep. "He never knew his father, and his mother died when he was very young." The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "Just about every woman that comes in here asks about him. Even I have to admit he's quite the looker." Before Alana could respond, Gendry stepped out of the storage room, carrying a large wooden chest, the top open to reveal intricate golden candlesticks shining in the light of the furnace. "If you count them, you'll see that there are seven, just as agreed upon," Tobho added as Alana took the chest from Gendry, still unable to keep her eyes off his hair. The same color as her and her father's hair.

The chest was heavy, but not unmanageable. She could rest it on her lap as she rode the horse back to the Sept of Baelor. "Thank you," she smiled at Gendry. "And thank you, Ser," she added to Tobho as an afterthought.

"I never got your name," Tobho realized, just as Alana was turning to leave.

"I am Lady Alana," she answered, choosing to avoid using her surname Storm. If Tobho knew that both she and Gendry were bastards, and that they both looked remarkably similar, it wouldn't take much to draw a connection between the two of them.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Alana," Tobho responded, bowing before her. Gendry remained standing, until Tobho elbowed him in the ribs, at which point he bent over, his back stiff and his eyebrows twisted into a frown.

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well. If you don't mind, I ought to bring these back to the Sept," she gestured with her chin to the chest in her hands. "I will be sure to tell the High Septon how polite the famed Tobho Mott was."

"Thank you, my lady," he bowed once more. "I'll show you out."

It wasn't until Alana was far from the blacksmith's shop, as her horse carried her to the curved ceiling of the Sept of Baelor visible even from her saddle, that she realized perhaps her father wouldn't even know if he had another bastard child. He raised Alana like a trueborn child, defending her whenever the taunts of the legitimate children of the servants turned cruel, even spending time with her every day, despite his long hours working as the master of laws. If he knew of the existence of Gendry, why wouldn't he treat his bastard son the same way? More importantly, if he had one bastard he knew nothing about, what's to say there wouldn't be more? _There's only one person who would know the truth and and be willing to tell me_, Alana realized. Thankfully, she knew exactly where he was.

* * *

Littlefinger was talking to Cersei by the time Alana arrived at the throne room of the Red Keep, his voice soft enough to not be heard while she approached, though it seemed controversial by nature, his lips curled up in a smile, as though he were sharing a secret. "May I speak to you alone?" Alana asked when she reached him.

His laughter died down as he noticed her presence, as well as the impatient tapping of her foot on the stone floor. "I don't believe I have the authority to dismiss the queen," he decided, glancing sideways at her.

"You do not," Cersei agreed. "But I will leave all the same." She smiled at Littlefinger (completely ignoring Alana) before making her way towards Ser Jaime, who was standing guard near the throne, his golden hair shining in the patch of sunlight he stood in.

"What do you have on your mind, my lady?" Littlefinger asked. Alana had spoken with him twice before, once on her sixteenth name day a year or so ago and once when she accidentally wandered into a small council meeting when she was much younger and he had offered to walk her back to her room. He had the remarkable ability to make her skin crawl regardless of their conversation topic. However, he also had a talent for secrets, his skills matched matched only by Lord Varys himself. If there was anyone who knew the truth of Gendry's parentage, it was one of those two.

"The High Septon sent me to pick up some candlesticks from Tobho Mott's blacksmith shop." She paused for a moment, gauging his reaction. He raised an eyebrow, as if to say _go on_, but his expression remained unchanged. "There I met a young boy named Gendry."

At the name, a sly smile spread across Littlefinger's face. "Ah, Gendry. I've spoken to the lad once or twice. He has the makings to be a great blacksmith some day. Pray tell, what is it about Gendry that caught the attention of Lady Alana Storm?"

Alana glanced around her, checking to make sure there was nobody eavesdropping on their conversation. "I think he's my brother," she finally whispered, satisfied that Littlefinger was the only one who could hear.

Littlefinger nodded slowly, processing the information. "He does resemble your father quite a bit. However, I think I have a better explanation." He paused for a moment, his eyes locked on Alana's face, before continuing, "I believe he's your cousin. The son of our great King Robert. Of course, there's no way to tell; his mother is long since dead, so she can't confirm that his father is the king. However, given remarkable resemblance to the king's family and given the king's previous… infidelity, one has to wonder."

"Indeed." Alana's head was reeling. She had known her uncle was not a man known for his monogamy - in fact, he was known for the opposite, of bedding anything that moved - but she never truly thought about the idea that she might have illegitimate cousins. It made sense of course, in hindsight. "There's no way to know for sure." A thought occurred to her, and she couldn't help but voice it, "My uncle has been known to have quite a few dalliances. How many bastards does he have?"

Littlefinger paused for a moment to think, his brow furrowing. "I know of four, but Varys claims he knows of nine. Truth be told, anyone with black hair could be one of Robert's bastards." He hesitated, before continuing, "I would advise you to keep this knowledge to yourself." He lowered his voice, his eyes glancing from side to side, mimicking Alana's motions a few moments earlier. "There are some who say that one Baratheon bastard living in the Red Keep is enough, and even that your father was wrong to keep you here, in court. To spread word of another could be… dangerous."

Alana nodded, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "I can't imagine Cersei would take well to having one of Robert's bastards in court." The queen was known for her hatred of bastards - in fact, she spent an enormous amount of time taunting and teasing Alana specifically - and the the idea that Robert would bring one of his illegitimate children to court must be enough to have her tear out her golden hair. Then again, that would make her all the more brutal in her taunting and teasing, to the hypothetical bastard as well as Alana. Alana found herself thanking the gods that Robert didn't care for his bastards as much as Renly did, and thanking the gods that he wouldn't dare bring them to court.

* * *

**A/N: I'd greatly appreciate any feedback on how this chapter was. Thank you again for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to MinnieJvV for motivating me to get this chapter out so quickly! The next chapter should be a little shorter, and I'll probably have that out within a week. Also, thank you to everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed. It's nice to know how many people enjoyed reading this. I hope this one lives up to the first chapter! Enjoy!**

Chapter 2

The carnal grunts and groans coming from the room beneath hers permeated through the thick wooden walls of the inn they stayed at, the moans of whatever whore Robert had gotten his hands on so loud Alana could hear it even with her head buried under her pillow and her fingers jammed into her ears. It was never like this back in King's Landing; her uncle's room was on the other side of the keep and the only noise Alana would be able to hear would be the distant crashing of the waves upon the beach, so faint that it was only perceptible on hot summer nights, when she would prop the window open and breath in the gentle breeze. No matter how quiet it was in King's Landing, it was always quieter in Storm's End, with a fraction of the court that Robert had. Renly's position as master of laws demanded that he spend a majority of his time in King's Landing, though he was given a month or two each year to return to his home, bringing his daughter with him. Alana missed it, missed the massive stone curtain walls that were so wide three horsemen could ride side by side side plenty of room. She missed the cliffs and the waves that thundered against them, so violently that Alana had no question as to why the sea was called Shipbreaker bay, no question as to why her grandparents were killed just off shore when their boat sank.

Another loud groan, followed by a giggle pulled Alana out of her musings, pulling her from the safety of her mind back to reality. She had blushed when Robert and whoever else he had in his room began, starting with the soft whispers and chuckling, but now her face had long since returned to its original color, and her patience was wearing thin. She rose from her bed, a shiver running through her body at the feeling of the night air through her thin nightdress, cold despite the embers that occasionally popped in the hearth.

She pulled on a cloak, made of a heavy cotton with bear fur around the collar, a gift for her sixteenth nameday from Robert (he claimed he had killed it himself, and later they had all feasted on the meat of the beast, gamey and spiced by the finest Dornish cooks - men Robert had sent for solely for her nameday - so spicy that she gasped and her mouth burned until she chased it down with a flagon of ale) and wrapped it around herself, stepping outside of her room.

The hallway was lit dimly, by a few candles flickering on their posts along the wall, their soft glow illuminating the hall in a weak light. Her footsteps padded on the dark carpet as she made her way to the staircase. She tried her best to walk softly down the stairs, but they were old and made of wood, and it seemed that every step she took made the floor groan and creak. The squeaks of Robert's bedframe didn't stop, however, and soon she was out in the night air, finally free of the wretched sound, free to listen to the chirping of the crickets and the howling of the wolves and the whistle of the wind between the trees.

* * *

"You're getting slow," Robb teased his brother as he struck another hit with his blunted practice sword, not enough to break skin but hard enough to send Jon howling in pain and limping away. Jon scowled and rubbed the spot on his thigh where he was hit, limping back towards the center of the sparring arena, where Robb stood waiting for him. The two had been fighting since noontime, trying to prepare for the royal visit. There was certainly going to be a tourney while the King was there, and Robb wanted to bring as much honor to his family as he could.

"You swing too hard," Jon muttered, swatting away one of Robb's thrusts and swinging his sword at his brother's head. "You're going to make me break something, and then you'll feel like an arse."

Robb laughed, ducking underneath Jon's swing. "I swing too hard _because _you move too slowly. With live steel, you'd already be dead."

They fought in silence for a few moments, taking turns attacking and defending. Their swords collided against each other with a loud _clang_, and Robb could feel the impact vibrate all the way up his arm, like the bone was a string on a harp that had just been plucked. He nearly dropped the sword then, but silently thanked the old gods when he had the strength to hold on long enough to block Jon's thrust.

He was finished, and Jon could see it. That hit had made his arm go numb, and he could barely hold his sword. His brother prepared to whack him with the sword, a blow that would without a doubt hurt, and make up for all the hits Robb had scored on him throughout their sparring session.

"Boys, it's getting dark," called their father, from the balcony behind him, overlooking the sparring arena. "You best come inside." For a pair of heartbeats, it looked as though Jon was going to ignore their father and deliver unto Robb the beating of a lifetime, but finally, _mercifully_, Jon let his arm fall and nodded, his expression bitter, his payback so close he could nearly taste it. Robb thanked the gods a for sparing him Jon's punishment.

"This isn't over," Jon hissed at him, wiping the back of his hand across his sweat-soaked brow, his ebony curls plastered against his forehead. "Next time we spar, you are so going to regret it."

Robb laughed, finally allowing his sword arm to drop, until the tip of the sword was planted in the sandy arena at his feet. "Next time we spar, father won't be around to save you."

Before Jon could protest that their father had spared Robb, not the other way around, Ned spoke again, "Jon, wash your face for dinner. Robb, I'd like to have a word with you beforehand. Meet me in my solar."

The two brothers split up after they entered the keep, and headed to their respective rooms, Robb's on the east wing of the keep and Jon's in the west (despite the two's closeness, Lady Catelyn had outright refused to have the bastard anywhere remotely close where her children slept, so Ned had had to put Jon's room on the other side of the keep). While he walked, all Robb could think about was what his father wanted to talk to him about.

His mind flashed through all the things he had done wrong, real or imagined. In truth, there were hundreds of things his father could be cross with him about, ranging from giving Arya pointers on her sword stance when he came across her practicing late at night, all the way to passing Bran a trencher of ale under the table during dinner one night.

He entered the solar to find his father sitting at the desk, sealing a letter with melted wax and the Stark sigil. "Sit down, please," he said without looking up, gesturing to the armchair in front of his desk. That was how Ned often was, forceful but not cold, expecting obedience but not without reason.

Robb sat before him, suddenly mindful of how sweaty he was from sparring. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Ned continued writing for a few more moments, before setting down his quill and looking up at him, his expression serious. "Jory told me he saw you and Theon in the whorehouse in Wintertown."

Robb let his head fall back, a groan escaping his lips. Of all the things Ned had to confront him about, it had to be this one. "That was because Theon needed someone to vouch for him. Apparently last time he was there, he started a fire-"

Ned held up his hand. "Whether or not you actually laid with a whore - which, make no mistake, I _don't _want to know the truth of it - I wanted to talk to you about it. This is long overdue, anyway." He waited for a moment, making sure Robb didn't have any complaints, before continuing, "Your mother and I love you, and we'd put up with many things, but the last thing Winterfell needs is another Stark bastard." He sighed, and Robb realized that putting on his stern exterior exhausted him, drained him of what little energy he had left after running the North.

"I promise, father, I will father no bastards. You have my word."

"Thank you, Robb." He smiled weakly. "I'm very proud of you."

A thought occurred to him. "Why didn't you call Jon in here as well? He's helped Theon back from the brothel more times than I can count. The only reason I helped Theon back to the castle was because Jon was busy."

Ned frowned in thought, drumming his finger against his bottom lip, as if deciding how to respond. "I trust that your brother understands better than anyone the consequences of fathering a bastard. Besides, from what he's told me, it's not going to matter in a few moons anyway."

Now it was Robb's turn to frown, this time in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Ned shook his head. "He wants to keep it a secret until he's certain. If you truly want to know, ask him yourself." He stood up. "It's about time to eat. Let's go." The two left the room together, though Ned went to the Great Hall, while Robb headed to his room, to wash the sweat and dirt off his face before eating. He pushed what father had said to the back of his mind. No matter how much he wanted to to ask Jon what father was talking about when he saw him at dinner, Robb knew that if he wanted to talk about it, he would.

* * *

The proximity of the brothel to the inn certainly explained how Robert had paid for a whore so quickly. Alana had been walking for no more than five minutes before she had come across the whorehouse, and the irony was not lost on her, that she had left the inn to escape the sounds of passion and instead found herself listening to the overly-dramatic moans and keens of the whores, audible even from outside the establishment.

The old wooden sign hanging out over the road swung back and forth in the soft breeze, painted like a peach with a bite taken out of it. All the other buildings in the town were cloaked in darkness, the blinds of every window drawn and the candles put out, save for the brothel. The entire building was lit up, it's windows glowing even through the thin curtains, the sounds of conversation and passion intermingling with one another.

As Alana passed the door, her footsteps meeting the cobblestone with a rhythmic _rat tat tat_, the wooden door swung open, a man tumbling backwards and falling into the gutter. "And stay out!" called a graying brown haired woman, who possessed, Alana couldn't help noticing, the largest pair of breasts she had ever seen, laced tightly in a brown leather bodice on top of a white dress.

She was much older than Alana would have expected, yet still younger than Cersei was, her brown hair tipped streaked with grey, yet still remaining dark, not unlike her own hair. The woman turned her gaze to Alana, and she realized she had been staring at the woman. "If you're here for my girls, come on in, don't be shy." She stepped aside to make room in the doorway, keeping her arm against the door, holding it open for her. Behind her, Alana could see a brightly lit room, with girls walking around, wearing nothing but thin chemises, flaunting their hips as they walked, smiling as they chose their next client.

"Oh, no thank you," Alana responded, her face heating up, all the way from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. "I'm just passing by."

The woman quirked her lips and raised her eyebrows, doubt in her eyes, as if to say _Oh really?_ "Are you sure? Forget any men you've had, _my _girls know how to give you pleasure."

Now Alana was certain she was going to burn up from embarrassment, and she was positive her face was now a bright red, her blush visible even in the darkness of the street. Behind her, the man thrown out of the brothel began to struggle to his feet, stumbling a few shaky steps back to the establishment before his knees gave out and he sprawled out in front of the cobblestone, groaning to himself. Even from where she stood, she could smell the ale on his breath, enough to make her wrinkle her nose and take a step away from him. "I'm not here for your girls," she explained. "I was just passing by to clear my head."

The woman nodded, her lips twitching upwards in a bitter smile. "I understand." She took a step forward, her fingers closing around a lock of Alana's coal-black hair, rolling it around and inspecting it. "You have such pretty hair." She sighed and opened her hand, letting the hair fall back to Alana's shoulders. "Why don't you come inside, so we can talk?" Seeing Alana's hesitation, she grinned, and added, "I have plenty of ale."

On one hand, Renly would be seriously disappointed in her if he caught her in the brothel, furious even. He would probably send her to live off in the mountains, or to work for the Silent Sisters. On the other hand, a tankard of ale sounded divine, even if she did have to drink it in the bottom floor of a whorehouse. "Maybe for one quick drink," she decided.

The woman smiled and led her inside, away from the man who had once again risen to his feet, taking a few unsteady steps away before bending at the waist and heaving up his dinner. Alana would have been lying if she said she wasn't the least bit excited. Visiting a whorehouse was the absolute opposite of what a lady ought to do, and she didn't have the slightest idea of what she was going to find inside.

The room was like any other, not quite as grand or large as the Great Hall of King's Landing, yet similar to the inn. There were men everywhere, sitting at tables waiting impatiently to be serviced, being led in and out of rooms by giggling girls wearing too-short dresses. There were a few girls loitering around, likely whores, laughing with one another and even sneaking sips of ale from the cask when no one was looking, yet they were few and far between compared to the number of men.

The woman sat down at an open table, and waved Alana to sit down next to her, revealing a thin gold band around her ring finger. "My name is Tansy. All my girls call me Madam Tansy, but I think just Tansy will do for you. I run this place." A girl no older than Alana walked over carrying two tankards of frothing ale, sloshing with every step she took. The girl set them down and flashed Alana a brief smile before walking away, leaving her to sort out if it was a look of pity or not.

"My name is Alana," she responded, her gaze dropping to the tankard of liquor before returning back to Tansy. She reached over and took a sip, her mouth filling with the bitter taste. "Alana Storm."

Tansy's eyes widened in understanding. "So you're a bastard?" She asked, leaning in, her voice dropping. "I've had a few bastards myself. The youngest is just a few years younger than you are. They're all gone now, off to earn their fortune somewhere other than their mother's brothel." She smiled bitterly, her eyes unfocused and distant. "All but one of my children don't even know who their father is." She shook her head and took another drink from her tankard, longer this time, and Alana sat silently, listening to Tansy swallow loudly, perceptibly even over the din of the room. When she was done, she set the tankard down on the table with a loud _clank_, wiping the thin line of foam that had collected against her top lip. "Do me a favor, Alana." Without waiting for her to respond, she continued, "Tell your mother you love her, even if you don't."

"I don't know who my mother is," Alana all but whispered, dropping her gaze to the ale. "Well, I know who she is. I've never met her."

* * *

"_Do you have a letter for me?" Alana asked the ship captain, her fingers crossed and hidden behind her back, a sweet smile plastered on her face to mask the uncertainty and nerves she hid. She had given him a letter, many months ago, asking him to deliver it to her mother when he arrived in Myr to pick up his shipment of Myrish lace. She had spent every night since then checking the dock, searching for the only ship with dark wood and blood red sails ("to honor the Red God," he explained to her when she asked, just moments before she handed him her letter)._

_He bowed his head and kicked at the docks, as though he were trying to decide how to respond. "I gave the letter to her," he began, chewing at his bottom lip. He clearly had been speaking the Common tongue for a long time, enough to be fluent in it, his words clear despite his thick Myrish accent. "But as soon as I said who it was from she threatened to have me arrested, and had her guards escort me out of the mansion." Seeing Alana's stricken face, he reached out a comforting hand to her shoulder. "I'm sorry. Truly."_

"_It's not your fault," Alana muttered, her eyes stinging with unspilled tears._

"_If it would make you feel any better, I can tell you she was very pretty." He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "I'm no poet, but my father was always furious with me for wasting my time sketching on whatever scrap of paper I could find. If it would make you feel any better, I might be able to draw what she looked like." He sounded uncertain, but Alana could tell he meant the best. "It would be no masterpiece, but perhaps you could bring it to one of the court painters-"_

"_No," she interrupted before realizing it made her sound ungrateful. "No thank you." She had poured her heart into that letter, discussing anything that came to mind. In truth, the letter was several pages long, long enough to be considered three or four separate letters. Likely, her mother hadn't even read it, merely torn it to shreds the moment the captain was out the door. "I'd get sad every time I looked at it."_

* * *

She was right, of course. Every time she looked at her the painting of her mother, hidden away in the small golden locket she often kept tucked under her dress, she felt a wave of both sadness and longing in equal parts ("She looks just like you," the court painter had observed as he consulted the ship captain's drawing - the one she had run to his ship the day before he left to Myr to beg him to draw - and set up his easel, while Alana wished she knew how to paint, so she could paint it herself and nobody would ever know just how badly Alana wanted to see her mother's face, hear her mother's words, even if they were spoken through ink and parchment rather than through the wind). Alana touched the locket, just to be sure it was still there, hanging around her neck.

"I'm sorry," Tansy apologized before hiccuping, bringing a hand to cover her mouth. "My friends used to say it would only take two or three tankards of ale before I'm retching in the alleyway."

Alana smiled, though it was without humor. "There's nothing to be sorry for. Not everyone has as high a tolerance to spirits as…" Her voice trailed away, unsure whether or not she should refer to herself as a Baratheon. All illegitimacy aside, it may be foolish to let the entire brothel know she was related to the king. The kind of man who spends his nights in a brothel is not the kind of man you would trust not to ransom you to your uncle. "As my family," she finished. Eager to change the subject, she added, "It took five tankards of ale on my sixteenth nameday before I was as drunk as my uncle usually is." She dropped her gaze to her tankard, swishing the liquid around, wondering if perhaps she said too much, if what she said was enough to reveal her uncle was none other than Robert Baratheon.

When she looked back up, Tansy stared at her, intently, as though she were expecting Alana to be someone else. "You remind me of my daughter," she mused. "My youngest. Her name is Mina. She used to get so angry at me, for bringing her into this world as a bastard rather than a trueborn girl. She left to live with her father not long ago." Tansy stared off into the distance, sighing to herself. "Perhaps it was for the best. No girl deserves to grow up in a whorehouse."

"Better to be raised in a whorehouse than to be raised without a mother," Alana decided, raising the tankard of ale one last time to her lips, draining it until only the foam was left at the bottom. She had drank since her sixteenth name day, a tankard of ale here and a flask of mead there, but never to excess. She hadn't enjoyed the dizziness of nausea of the drink, and she certainly hadn't enjoyed the pounding headache she had the next morning, nor the fact that she had to draw her shades and shove her head under a pillow to prevent the light from making things worse. She hadn't been able to leave her room until the sun had already begun to sink in the sky, well after everyone had eaten lunch.

"You're a smart girl, Alana," Tansy observed, smiling at her. "Do you have time to stay for another round?"

Alana frowned in thought, glancing down at the now empty tankard in her hands. "I suppose I could stay for one more. What's the worst that could happen?" Tansy waved down one of her girls, gesturing to her empty tankard. The girl nodded and took their cups, bringing them to the cask of ale.

Alana knew she was in trouble the instant she heard his laugh. Robert had a booming laugh, the kind that always seems to be louder than everything else, able to be heard even from the other side of the room. She turned her head, and, sure enough, it was none other than her uncle, stumbling along and flanked by several kingsguard, his arm around a girl's shoulder, a girl that couldn't be older than Alana.

"Did you enjoy Cass, your grace?" Tansy called from behind her, nearly knocking her chair over in her haste to bow before the king.

Robert grinned and opened his mouth, turning to look at Tansy, when his eyes landed on Alana, turning in an instant from puzzlement to anger. Alana tried to swallow the thickness in her throat, turning back towards Tansy and quickly gulping down the fresh tankard of ale, not stopping until she felt her uncle's rough hand on her shoulder. "Come with me," he demanded. Alana didn't even have to turn her head to smell the wine and mead on his breath, didn't even have to turn around to see the look of disappointment on his face.

Without saying a word, Alana rose, walking towards the door with her head tilted, like a child who had been caught doing something naughty. "She's not a whore," Tansy protested, causing Alana's heart to clench. The woman had trusted her, and Alana had lied to her, pretended to be someone she wasn't. "She is simply here for the drinks."

"This _girl,_" Robert hissed out the word, as if to emphasize to anyone listening in the now-silent room that Alana was not a whore. "Is my niece. And she will be leaving now."

Every man in the whorehouse was watching her now, their eyes fixed on her every move as she made her way out. Already they were whispering to one another, always when the king and his men weren't looking. As soon as they were all gone, they'd practically shout to the world about how the king's niece, who usually spent all of her time in the sept, was found in a whorehouse. Alana looked over her shoulder to get one last look at Tansy, at her look of confusion, before Robert's wide body blocked her from sight as he followed her out of the brothel. _I'm sorry Tansy_, she thought to herself. This would somehow find a way to come back to haunt the poor woman. For all she knew, Robert would have her shut down the brothel as soon as he was sure Alana was back at the inn. As Alana made her way out the door, followed closely by her uncle, she promised the Seven that she'd find some way to make it up to her, if it was the last thing she did.

* * *

"Out," Robert ordered his kingsguard, pointing towards the door out of Alana's room. The two knights, whose names Alana had never bothered to learn, silently left the room, their armor clinking with every step.

As soon as they were out of the room, Alana turned to him, wringing her hands. "I wasn't doing anything shameful," she explained, glancing down at the floor, unwilling to make eye contact with her uncle. "I was just drinking, and you do that all the time."

"I also spend most of my days in brothels, but that doesn't mean you should." He sighed. "I'm not going to tell your father."

Alana was prepared for another shouting match with her uncle, one that couldn't possibly end well, likely ending with her father joining in. She had opened her mouth, but at his statement, she found herself unable to understand. What possible motive could he have to keeping her secret? "You won't?"

"Everyone makes mistakes. And I believe you when you say that all you were doing was drinking there." He sighed heavily, dropping his gaze to the floor. "Gods know I've spent far too much time in whorehouses across Westeros."

Alana had half a mind to leave now while her luck was good. He wasn't going to tell her father, and that was the best thing she could have asked for. On the other hand, she was terribly curious. "If you don't mind me asking, why? Why not tell my father? What do you gain from it?"

Robert smiled wryly. "Because I know people make mistakes. I've made thousands. And I know that your life is hard enough as a bastard. I've seen the way Cersei and her so-called friends whisper about you when you walk by. The last thing you need is for them to have a reason to talk about you." He set his arm on her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. "Nobody of importance knows you were there, save for the kingsguard, and they won't say anything unless I give them permission, which I will not. Next time, be more careful. I might not be the one to find you there."

Without hesitation, Alana pulled him into a hug, burying her face into his massive, heavy robes and sighing heavily with relief. "Thank you, uncle," she whispered. "My father would have killed me."

Robert laughed, a jolly, booming laugh. "Renly wouldn't have killed you. He may have been disappointed, but he wouldn't have killed you. Your Uncle Stannis, however, he might have killed you. You ought to thank the gods you aren't his daughter." He patted her on the head gently. "You ought to go to bed, Alana. We're departing early in the morning tomorrow, and you need as much rest as you can get."

Alana nodded and stepped back. "I will. Good night, uncle Robert."

Robert smiled, the two edges of his thick beard twitching upwards. "Good night, Alana. I'll see you tomorrow morning." With a small pat on her shoulder, he made his way out of the room, the floorboards creaking with every step, until the door shut behind him.

Alana sat down on the floor before the fire, now reduced to mere glowing embers, her heart racing. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Robert was right, when he said she was lucky she wasn't Stannis' daughter. While Renly may have sent her to live with the Silent Sisters if he caught her in the brothel, it was her uncle Stannis who truly would have shunned her. He already had enough disdain for her father, for daring to let his bastard daughter stay at the keep, eating where the king's trueborn children ate, sleeping mere rooms away from the king and queen. If she were to be caught in a brothel, he wouldn't have hesitated before telling the Seven Kingdoms how his niece was caught cavorting with whores, how for all they knew she had been working as a whore herself, that all her time spent at the Sept of Baelor was an elaborate lie so she could spend time secretly working at the Street of Silk.

She could remember the way he would frown at her sixteenth nameday, his scowl getting more and more pronounced as Alana got deeper into her cups. When the dancing began, and Alana managed to drag him out onto the dance floor, amidst the twirling nobles, the sound of a happy, warm song in the air, he had frowned the whole time. He had leaned in during an especially loud part of the song, and whispered, "You're just like Robert. A disgrace to the Baratheon name." He left afterwards, claiming exhaustion, and soon Alana found herself drinking more and more, eager to rid herself of the memory.

It hadn't worked, and she still could feel her throat constrict when she thought of her uncle's face when he stepped away, the look of satisfaction on his face as he realized how much his words had hurt.

Alana stay awake for a long time afterwards, staring at the embers of her fire, until the sun began to crest the horizon, and her room was lit, even with the candles blown out, with the faint light that filtered in through the window. At last her eyes grew too heavy and she lay her head on the wooden floor, finally allowing sleep to take her.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you guys think so far!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey! Sorry I got this out later than I said I would. It's probably going to be a little while before I can post chapter 4. Thank you for all the feedback! It's wonderful motivation. Please tell me what you think of this chapter. Enjoy!**

Chapter 3

The Stark grey banners standing along the ramparts were tugged back and forth by the howling winds that had plagued the royal party since they had crossed the tributary of the White Knife just after Castle Cerwyn. The guides that had been waiting for them at Cerwyn reassured them that the winds and the clouds they brought would pass, and Alana had no reason to believe otherwise. She hoped they were right, as Robert would be insufferable for the remainder of his visit if it were to storm and ruin any chance of a hunt (or a small tourney of sorts, as Robert had suggested to anyone who would listen).

The East Gate was not the formidable, legendary wall of oak that existed in Storm's End (never before penetrated by a battering ram, and nearly as strong as the cliffs the castle stood upon), but Alana knew, despite never being in a battle before, that the walls would have no trouble keeping out an invader. The gates themselves were thick, with bolts of steel holding the crossbeams in place, she noted as she passed under the guardhouse. Three guards in plate armor stood on each side of the gates, holding massive shields just low enough to reveal a direwolf hammered into the chest plate. These were unlike any of the Lannister's men, with their shining armor and unblemished swords, Alana realized. These men, the soldiers with chips in their blades and rusted red mail, had seen battle, had fought in Robert's Rebellion and watched their comrades be cut down by the Targaryens. Choosing between the two of them, the pristine knights beneath the crimson lion banner and the worn, grim soldiers beneath the white direwolf, Alana knew that the Northerners were far more likely to keep out any intruder.

She was trailing just behind her father, on a horse. To avoid insulting the Starks with the presence of a bastard, she was to enter Winterfell after the Royal family, but before the servants and soldiers. She decided to ride through the gates with her head held high for all to see, that while she was a bastard she sure as the seven was not ashamed of it.

The wind pulled at her braid as she entered the courtyard, sending sharp pricks of pain into her scalp, and blowing the tunics of the nobility already in the courtyard, even threatening to knock Robert's jeweled crown off his head as he dismounted his horse.

Robert cursed and grabbed the crown at the last moment, just as it seemed as though it were about to fall. Alana bit her lip as she struggled not to laugh, a smile tugging at her lips and forcing her to look away before she angered her uncle.

Instead, she focused on the line of nobles that stood before them, to welcome the royal party to Winterfell. They had to be the Starks, she decided, taking in their fine clothing, leather doublets and thick woolen dresses, made for keeping the wearer warm yet made by skilled weavers nevertheless.

Had she been a princess, or even if she had been trueborn, Robert would have insisted that she memorize the names of the five Stark children, had her read over which parent they favored so she could tell them apart. However, she was a bastard, and all Robert told her of the Starks were the stories he told after he was deep in his cups, the stories she wasn't meant to hear, the ones intended for the ears of the fellow soldiers of the room. From what she had heard, Lord Eddard Stark was a man fiercely loyal to his friends and family, slow to anger but fierce as a wolf when provoked.

Robert now stood in front of him, his golden crown now righted, though his hair was an untidy mop underneath it. Both of the men stood silently, the tension between the two of them palpable to everyone in the courtyard. It had been a long time since the two had seen one another, nearly nine years if memory served, not since the two of them helped storm Pyke, to put down the Greyjoy rebellion.

"You've gotten fat," Robert announced, a wide grin spreading across his face. Eddard struggled to remain serious in front of his children, but soon he too was smiling despite himself. All at once, the tension was gone, and it seemed the courtyard could breathe a sigh of relief. "Nine years!" Robert continued, shaking his head. "Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?"

"Guarding the north for you, your grace," Lord Stark responded, bowing before the king. "Winterfell is yours." Soon the two old friends were laughing together, Robert pulling Eddard into a great bear hug.

Alana glanced over at her father, as he watched the king and his best friend embrace with a look of almost longing on his face. He turned his head to catch her staring. "Friendship like that is rare amongst nobles," he explained, keeping his voice just above a whisper. "Most nobles are snakes, willing to lie and pretend to be your friend just to climb the social ladder."

Alana looked back at her uncle, who was now being introduced to Lord Stark's children._ At least_ _I don't need to worry about being false friends,_ she decided, watching the eldest Stark son shake hands with the king. _There's nothing to gain from befriending a bastard._

* * *

"Who have we here?" The king asked, offering up his hand. "You must be Robb." Robb nodded and shook the kings hand, idly wondering why it was so sweaty. The king didn't seem to notice, and had already moved onto Sansa, complimenting her on how beautiful she looked, while Robb fought the urge to wipe his hand off on his tunic.

Robert was talking to Bran, urging the boy to show his muscles, when a shout silenced the soft, hushed voices that had begun to slowly increase in volume since the king had greeted Ned. Robb jerked his head to the gate, where he had heard the noise, and where a half dozen guards had already assembled, weapons drawn to fight off an attacker.

The attacker, it turned out, was the blonde haired, scowling queen. "What, in the name of the seven, do you think you are doing?" she hissed, her hands balled up in fists, and her foot stomping to punctuate her question. She was facing a girl with hair as dark as raven feathers, who was in the middle of dismounting her chestnut horse. When the girl opened her mouth to respond, the queen interrupted, "I'll tell you what you're doing. You are humiliating the Starks, Baratheons, _and Lannisters_ by daring to enter Winterfell with the highborn." Despite the fact that there was no enemy, merely an argument between nobles, the guards (_Lannister guards_, Robb realized, his eyes narrowing) kept their weapons held upwards, ready to strike, as if this girl, no older than Robb, was capable of posing a threat to the royal family.

The wind picked up again, pulling at Robb's tunic and sending an icy chill down his spine, but he supposed this was not the time to suggest that the two resume their argument inside, preferably by the heat of a crackling fire. "It's nothing, Cersei," a black haired man responded quickly. He greatly resembled the king, though he was younger, and clearly weighed far less. Robb assumed it was Lord Renly. "A small mistake. She will go back and wait to enter with the servants." He shot the black haired girl a meaningful look, and she rolled her eyes before mounting her horse once more.

"She humiliated us," the queen still insisted.

"No more than you have with your shouting," the king called back, the warmth in his eyes present only moments ago replaced by something dark and cold. "Be silent."

For a moment, it seemed as though she was going to say something else, her mouth open and her tongue moving to form the words. The spell was broken though, when the black haired girl leaned in and whispered something to her horse's ear, a few, short words easily caught by the wind. Whatever it was, it was enough to prompt Renly to laugh, a short, joyful sound, mixed with pride, before he quickly turned it into a clearly fake coughing fit. Cersei's eyes narrowed; first at Renly, then at the girl, a look of pure, seething hate in her eyes.

"Fine," Cersei declared, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I want her out of my sight."

The girl turned the horse around without another comment and slowly made her way out from between the gates, scratching her horse behind the ears as she did so. _She has long hair_, Robb observed, staring at her braid. She glanced back, for a brief moment, back at Renly, and Robb noticed she had brown eyes, unlike her father. Unlike the blue eyes of House Baratheon.

* * *

Alana hadn't bothered to dismount her horse after Cersei had thrown a temper tantrum in front of all of Winterfell, shrieking about embarrassing the Lannisters. She used to spend a week on horseback on the journey to Storm's End with her father (his position in the small council as Master of Laws required him to spend most of his time in the capital, though he managed to find time each year to take her back to her birthplace, where she'd sleep in her childhood bed, like nothing had changed), and another week on the return journey. Those were long days, with the trees from the Kingswood shielding the sun from view, keeping her whole day shrouded in the dark. Her thighs chafed and grew sore, her back ached, but still she hadn't complained, unwilling to let the party rest for even a moment longer, for every moment she spent making camp in the mud was another moment she wouldn't get to spend exploring the extensive library (not as large as the one in King's Landing, the books always seemed to find a way to get damp, even indoors, but the library in King's Landing didn't have any interesting stories hidden away), or pleading with her father to teach her to sail (he was always hesitant to go out onto Shipbreaker bay, especially since her grandparents had died out there, but she managed to convince him once, and for a full day she was the captain of _Elenei's Grace_, and she relished every wave that threatened to knock her over, and every sting of sea salt in her eyes).

She prided herself on two things: her determination (_stubbornness_, as her father was wont to call it when she would refuse his help in carrying a particularly large and heavy stack of books up to her room) and her ability to sit a saddle for days at a time if necessary, and it looked like she would be able to use both.

She was so caught up in her anger towards that blonde _she-demon_ that she didn't notice her father approached until his hand was on her shoulder. "She's gone," was all he said, his voice soft, like he was attempting to calm an enraged animal.

She smiled weakly, resting her hand on his for a second before she kicked her horse onward, entering Winterfell for a second time. "For how long?"

"Robert demanded he visit the crypt almost immediately after you left, and the crowd dispersed pretty soon after that. I'd say she's on the other side of the castle by now," Renly concluded, pulling back on the reins to slow the horse to a stop, before dismounting and handing them to a servant.

Alana followed suit. "Just in case, I'd like to be in whatever room they have prepared for me as quickly as possible." She leaned as far backwards as she could while still standing, letting the bones pop, allowing her mouth to open and release a soft moan as she felt relief wash over her body. When she straightened, a man stood before her, no older than she. He stood with his hands behind his back, watching as she and her father approached, his expression unreadable.

Alana expected him to speak, but it was her father who began, "Alana, this is Robb Stark, the heir to Winterfell. He's going to show you to your room." Her own room? This was certainly a first. She was used to sleeping in moldy old inns on the outskirts of castles, on beds as hard as rocks, with only a scratchy blanket and a pillow smelling of mildew for comfort. How in the name of the seven had Renly managed to convince the Starks to find a spare room for her, especially considering that there was only a limited number of bedrooms, so few that even her father was forced to sleep in the tavern in Wintertown. As if to answer her questioning look, Renly continued, "Robert decided to sleep outside the castle. He said it was to try to make up for his wife's behavior. " He snorted. "If Robert truly wanted to make up for the queen's fit, he ought to offer you a castle and a lordship."

Alana chuckled, more to indulge her father than anything else. He always got like this whenever someone so much as commented on her bastardry, once going so far as to throw the captain of the guard at Storm's End in the dungeons for a month, after the man, knocking over the pile of empty tankards he had before him, announced that the storm they were currently experiencing was a curse by the gods for allowing a bastard under their roof, highborn or not.

Instead of encouraging her father's rants (which often amounted to nothing but his reassuring that Alana deserved better), she decided to change the subject, and turned her attention to Robb. "Nice to meet you… Lord Stark." She added the _lord_ as an afterthought, knowing how sensitive young heirs could be about their titles."My name is Alana."

"Please, just call me Robb." His response came quick and easy, lacking all the stiff formalities that most of her conversations with nobles contained. "What do I call you, Lady…"

"Storm," she responded after a moment's hesitation. It was inevitable that he would be curious towards her house; she entered the castle just moments after the king, so logic dictates that she would be of an important house. "Alana Storm."

Understanding flashed through the boy's eyes, but Alana was surprised to see there was no trace of judgement in them. They were a deep blue, darker than her father's, closer to the color of the ocean. "So you are from the Stormlands, then?"

Alana nodded, the movement slow and deliberate, as though she were worried this was some kind of trap. "Yes."

The two began to walk into the keep, out of the howling wind that could chill her even through her thick cloak. "I saw what happened with Cersei," he admitted after a few moments of silence, after they were out of the cold.

Alana shrugged, as though the whole event hadn't bothered her. "The queen does what she wants, I suppose." In truth, she wasn't angry at the queen. She hadn't expected anything better from the bitter woman. Instead of anger, her unhappiness had taken the form of a flush across her face as every eye in the courtyard had looked at her, one foot still in the stirrups as she dismounted.

The two made their way up a set of wooden stairs, the floorboards solid as the stone walls around them, with not a hint of creaking or moaning as she stepped. "This is your room," he stated, stopping in front of a dark wooden door. "This is the guest hallway. You can get to my room by taking a right at the end of the corridor. It's the last one before the staircase." He paused for a moment, as if choosing what he was going to say next. "I have a question for you, if you don't mind."

Alana briefly debated saying no and entering her room. Nine times out of ten, when someone had a question alone with her, it involved her legitimacy. And the one time when it wasn't was usually a proposition for sex. But Robb hadn't commented on her bastardry when he found out she was baseborn. "I don't," she finally decided, taking a risk.

"What was it you said to the queen?" He asked. Seeing her confusion, he continued, "When Robert told her to be silent, she looked fit to burst, until you said something. What was it?"

"Oh." Alana rubbed the back of her neck, embarrassed to continue. "I said… well… oh, she'll hang me if she finds out I said it."

"She won't. On my honor as a Stark, I will never tell a soul what you said."

"I said 'come on Cersei, let's go.'" She could feel her lips spreading into a wide smile. "It won't make a lot of sense until you know that I named my horse _Cersei_. She - the queen, not the horse - always gets furious when I bring it up."

Robb chuckled, eventually allowing himself a grin. "And she didn't have you change the name?"  
"She tried, but Robert said she ought to be honored that people are finally naming things after her." She began to take notice of the fact that Robb was staring into her eyes. "What is it?" She demanded, suddenly defensive.

"You are by far the most interesting person I have ever met." He chuckled again, quieter this time, if only to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them. "Will I see you at the feast tonight?"

Alana nodded, her mind drifting away towards how she was going to slip into the Great Hall without Cersei noticing. "I'll see you there. If you'll excuse me, I need to clean myself. It has been a long day of travelling, and there are few baths in the taverns scattered across the North."

Robb nodded, still smiling. "I will see you tonight." He turned around and began walking towards the end of the corridor - to his room, if memory served - his footsteps growing fainter and fainter until, with the click of the door to her room shutting, they ceased entirely.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: It's been too long since I last updated. I got the first three chapters out pretty quickly, but I guess life got in the way of this one. I'm going to do my best to make sure I get the next one out pretty quickly. I have a definite plan of where this story is going to go, and though there is some room for variation, I think I already know how it's going to end. This is my first time writing with an outline, and I like to think it's better than the other stories I've written for fanfiction. I'd love to hear your feedback for this chapter! Even if it's just to tell me I should have updated sooner. I know what the next chapter is going to be, so it should be written pretty quickly. Here's a brief teaser: next chapter is the tourney.**

**Anyways enjoy!**

Chapter 4

The great hall of Winterfell grew darker and darker as the night wore on, as the candles burned lower and lower, while the jokes became louder and bawdier, with the king laughing the loudest of all. He had a serving girl in his lap, with one meaty hand on her hip and a metal tankard brimming with ale in the other. As he swung his arm around the drink sloshed around, spilling foam onto the table and floor. He didn't seem to notice, raising his tankard in the air, prompting others at the table to do the same. "To Lord Stark, and his wonderful feasts," he announced, before raising the bottom of his cup and swallowing loudly, not stopping until he set it down, empty, with foam coating his beard. "May tomorrow's tourney be as enjoyable." She had almost forgotten about the tourney tomorrow, a competition the King had insisted upon.

Alana grimaced, closing her eyes for a moment, as if the scene before her was a dream she could wake up from. For once, she actually pitied Cersei, who was seated on the other side of the dais, beside Lady Stark. The queen was pretending not to notice her husband's drunken antics, though her twisted mouth and pinched brow made it clear she could see him making a fool of himself. _Thank the gods Uncle Stannis isn't here_. If the second eldest Baratheon brother, who couldn't even stomach seeing his niece at court, could see King Robert making such a fool of the Baratheon name, he'd be like to declare himself the new king, and attempt to rally supporters throughout the kingdom.

At least, that was what her father told her on days when Robert was acting particularly foolish. From the few occasions Alana had spoken to him, he had seemed more reasonable - withdrawn, perhaps, and certainly never smiling, but reasonable.

A servant girl walked by with a platter of food, carrying slices of pork from the suckling pig that sat on the main table in the center of the room. The cuts were likely of the highest quality, selected by Winterfell's best cooks, meant for the highest of the nobles, the king and his family. The meats would be the most tender, covered in breadcrumbs and seasoned with black pepper. As the girl passed, the smell wafted by, and Alana's eyes fluttered shut, as she allowed herself to take a deep breath, inhaling the rich scent.

Renly had warned her to stay in her room, raising a finger and doing his best to look serious, but Alana rarely listened to him in matters such as this. He was doing his best to look out for her, keep her hidden from Cersei's piercing gaze and away from any negative attention, but the thought of eating dinner in her room, situated so close to the Great Hall that she could actually hear the laughter through the floors, seemed too bleak a prospect for the night.

So rather than obeying her father, Alana found herself following the serving girl to the main table, eager to taste the pork meant for the highest of the nobles. She was a noble wasn't she? She was the niece of the king, and daughter to the Lord of the Stormlands. She wouldn't reach for it first, of course, but after the king and queen and their children had taken their fill, she'd take a slice or two. Nobody would miss two little cuts of pig.

The girl set the plate down on the table, and Alana waited as the king set his now-empty tankard on the table and speared a slice with his knife, tearing off a chunk with his teeth.

Alana waited as the platter was passed around, as every higher noble took a slice. On the other end of the table, sitting next to the other Stark siblings, Robb smiled at her, waved a hesitant hand towards her. Alana smiled back and returned the wave, a short gesture to let him know she saw him. He backed his chair up, as if to stand, but Alana's attention was torn away by the sharp pain in her wrist, as a hand grabbed and jerked her arm upwards, fingers digging into her flesh so tight it let blood well up in crescent half moons, where the fingernails cut into her skin.

She spun around - as well as she could with one hand held in place - and found herself face to face with Cersei, a smirk of sickening vengeance on the older woman's face. "What do you think _you're _doing here, bastard?" When Alana didn't answer, Cersei squeezed her wrist harder, until her knuckles turned white with strain. Alana gritted her teeth and stared into the queen's eyes, refusing to allow her to see how much pain she was in.

Cersei tightened her grip, determined to make Alana cry out. Alana couldn't help but feel a swell of pride for the anger that flashed through the queen's eyes when she couldn't get a reaction out of the girl. "Not going to answer me?" She challenged.

Alana glanced over at the dais. Robert was still making eyes at the serving girl in his lap, leaning in to kiss her neck, while her father was mysteriously absent from the table. Either nobody had noticed Cersei grabbing her arm, or nobody wanted to interfere with the queen. She returned her gaze to Cersei, her glare defiant.

"Fine," Cersei snapped, tugging Alana's arm forward as she began to walk, dragging Alana along beside her. "Spend the night with the hounds for all I care." Cersei pulled her towards the door, despite the resistance Alana gave, giving her a sharp tug whenever she fell behind. Alana fought back, but the older woman was stronger, and her grip was like iron.

As they approached the doors to the Great Hall, one of the guards, a Stark guard, with the direwolf sigil over his mail coat, raised his gloved hand, signalling for them to stop. Before the guard could speak, Cersei snarled, "I am your queen. Do you dare tell me what I can and cannot do?"

The guard considered this for a moment, and, sending a glance at the man on the other side of the doorway, stepped back, allowing Cersei and Alana through. As she passed, Alana tried to get his attention, but he pretended not to notice her, his gaze focused on his brown leather boots.

Cersei took three steps outside of the keep before shoving Alana forward, so hard she collapsed to the ground, landing on her shoulder and sliding across the cobblestone, pain lancing its way through her arm. "Bastards and highborns don't mix. Get that in your head, and perhaps you might last in this world."

Taking the time to shoot her one last glare, Cersei pulled the doors shut, the heavy wood colliding with a thunderous _boom_.

Alana propped herself up on her elbows, ignoring the pain as they dug into the rough stone. _One one-thousand… two one-thousand… three one-thousand…_

She sat up, confident that Cersei was gone, that she was satisfied with simply throwing Alana from the great hall, leaving her covered in dirt and mud and maybe a little blood on her wrist. Rising to her feet, Alana dusted off her dress, where the dirt had caked from her impact onto the ground.

Her attention was drawn away by a hard _thwack_, the sound of metal on wood. The noise repeated, until it came constant and steady, until the din of laughter and conversation of the Great Hall became background noise.

Her foot crunched on the dirt and rocks, soft and almost silent, as she made her way to the other side of the Great Hall, near the barracks.

A boy, or rather, a man, slashed at a wooden training dummy with a sword, hacking at the limbs stuffed with hay. His dark brown curls were plastered with sweat against his forehead, and he was panting with exertion. He lifted his arm to swing again, but seemed to sense he was being watched, glancing over his shoulder at Alana. His expression didn't change, but gradually he let the point of his sword drop, allowed his arm to fall, until the tip of his blade was nearly touching the ground. He ran a hand caked with dirt across his forehead, wiping the hair out of his eyes. His clothes were well made yet not extravagant, choosing a thick brown leather doublet to combat the evening chill. He was a northerner for sure, with his clothing made for function rather than fashion.

He opened his mouth, but it was Alana who spoke, "Why aren't you at the feast?" She supposed she already knew. Anyone highborn was at the feast, and anyone lowborn was in bed. There was only one other option.

His eyes dropped to his feet, and he scuffed his foot across the packed dirt, a cold, humorless smile spreading across his face. "Because I am a bastard," he responded after a moment, confirming Alana's suspicions. "And bastards are not welcome at the feast."

Alana gave him a reassuring smile as he looked up to return her gaze, his eyes stony and guarded, prepared to withstand mocking. "As am I."

His reaction was almost comical, the way his eyes seemed to light up, the way he raised his dark eyebrows. She couldn't say she blamed him. It was like finding a long lost sibling. There was no comparison to the relief a bastard felt when meeting another bastard. It was a reprieve from judgement, from the murmurs and whispers that always seemed to follow in a baseborn's wake. It was finding someone who understood everything you've been through.

"My name is Alana Storm. I was born in the Stormlands. Daughter of Renly Baratheon"

"Jon," he returned. "Jon Snow. I was born in the North. Son of Eddard Stark."

"A pleasure," she smiled. Her eyes darted towards the wooden dummy, the surface marred by slashes and cuts, before returning her gaze to Jon. "In the Stormlands, men train with their targets covered in armor. Sometimes chainmail, sometimes plates, sometimes both." Her eyes flashed back to the dummy, taking in the gashes in the chest and stomach area of the target, proof that he was aiming for areas that would be covered by plates. "I highly doubt you'll ever fight someone naked. You ought to train for the opponents you'll fight, not for the ones you want to."

Several years earlier, she had overheard a Smallcouncil meeting discussing the training and mustering of troops in response to a pack of bandits that had gathered along the Goldroad, raiding the caravans between Casterly Rock and King's Landing. Robert had caught her of course, she wasn't particularly stealthy, but he had only barked out a laugh and pulled a chair to the table, letting her listen quietly to the talk of war and armies. He had looked at her with more pride with every question she had asked than she had ever seen him give Joffrey.

Jon frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the target, his eyebrows knitted in thought. "That's very clever," he admitted after a moment, scratching his chin. "The swordsman from the Stormlands must be very skilled-"

"The best in the realm," Alana interrupted, ready to defend her claim if need be. The Stormlands may not be able to muster the most troops, but any man raised in the Stormlands was built from weathered steel, all the luxury and softness torn away by the wind and rain, until only the toughest and strongest survived.

"-but I will not be fighting anyone wearing armor."

Alana snorted in a manner that was not particularly lady-like, though perhaps it would have made her uncle proud. "Of course you're going to be fighting enemies wearing armor. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms, from kings to peasants to bastards, will be wearing armor in battle."

Jon's lips curled into a knowing smile, as he responded, "But I won't be fighting in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Oh really?" Alana challenged, resting her hands on her hips, her eyebrows raised. "Unless you're planning on leading men in the Summer Isles, I don't see how that's possible."

"Too far south, my lady." He glanced into the night sky, his gaze growing distant, his thoughts elsewhere. "I'm going to the Wall."

"The Wall?" Alana echoed. The air seemed to chill, until gooseflesh freckled her arms and a shiver ran down her spine. "They say there are darker things beyond the Wall than Wildlings. Things that have slept since the Long Night, that are just beginning to wake."

"Is that what you truly believe?" He asked, his voice even and measured, as though he were trying not to laugh, leaving her unable to tell if he was mocking her or not. "That there are snarks and grumpkins waiting for me?"

He must think her to be half a child, believing any gossip she overheard as truth. "Of course not," she shot back. "But, as the Starks often say, Winter is coming. The men who come to King's Landing, to recruit brothers of the watch, always come with their nose and fingers speckled with black from frostbite. The Wall is the coldest place in the Seven Kingdoms. And from what I've read, you'll be spending most of your time even further north, scouting Wildlings. You and I, we've grown up in summer. We don't know what it's like to truly be cold. There are men who'd rather die than be sent to the Wall. Being sent to the Wall is a punishment." The wind picked up, and he shivered again wrapping her arms around her shoulders. Not for the first time, she wished she had remembered her wool cloak. _How is it this cold? Isn't it summer?_

"Maybe to you southerners," he answered, his eyes glancing over her goose-pimples and flushed cheeks, "But us Northerners see it as an honor. To defend the realm from those who would seek to destroy it."

"To die cold and frozen," she corrected. "With robbers and traitors for company."

"It's my own life," he shot back, his knuckles white around the hilt of his blade, resting the tip at the dirt between his legs. "It's the best life I could ask for as a bastard."

A voice cleared to her right, and she and Jon turned their heads to find Robb, holding two leather wineskins, an apologetic smile on his face. "I hope I'm not interrupting a fight." He nodded towards Jon. "I see you've met my brother, Jon."

"More of a friendly discussion," Alana pointed out, her smile brimming with over-sweetness, acting perfectly innocent. "Jon here is set on freezing to death beyond the Wall."

Jon snorted. "And Alana here is set on being as bull-headed as possible without growing horns." Alana crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him, as if daring him to go further. He cracked a small smile, as if to show he was teasing.

"What's in the skins?" Alana asked returning her attention to Robb. Both were covered in a thin layer of fur, like the skin of a peach, from whatever animal they were taken from. One was light brown doe-hide, the same color that Alana had seen from afar when Renly took her to visit the Reach. The deer hadn't let her get too close, but they hadn't run away either, merely eyed her warily and chose to keep their distance, though she learned she could lure them close enough to pet if she brought an ripe red apple.

The other skin was a darker, richer shade of brown, like the bark of an oak tree. Robb raised them both in the air, a grin spreading across his face, and announced, "I managed to smuggle some wine out of the kitchen. I figured that since you were…" He paused, mulling over his words. "_Removed_ from the hall before you could have a taste, it was only fitting I bring some to you." He stopped talking, and Alana pretended not to notice the flush that had built up on his cheeks. She had thought nobody had noticed Cersei drag her out of the hall. Robb cleared his throat, and continued, "I was hoping you'd come drink with us."

. "Depends what kind of wine."

Robb raised the light brown skin, "This one is Arbor gold, shipped to Winterfell just for the King's visit."

Alana smirked. "I doubt my uncle will miss it. He'd be content to drink anything, so long as he could get drunk off it." She glanced at the other skin. "What's in that?"

Robb glanced at Jon uneasily. "I don't think you'd enjoy this. It's mead, made from northern and honey imported from the Westerlands. It's stronger than most southern wines, and it's not sweet like the others."

Alana laughed, almost disbelieving, shaking her head. "Have you met my uncle? My family can drink anyone under the table."

Before Robb could say anything else, a bout of laughter cut him off, causing him to glance over his shoulder. The sound was distant, yet all too close, coming from just around the side of the Keep. "We ought to find somewhere else to drink this," he suggested. "This was meant for the king after all, and I doubt your… aunt would approve."

Alana shook her head, "No, she most certainly would not. Especially since I'm involved." She looked around, taking in her surroundings, cold stone walls and dimly lit windows. "Where could we go?"

Jon and Robb shared a glance between each other, their brows creased in thought. The two shared little in terms of appearance, with Jon favoring Lord Stark in appearance, with his dark brown hair and grey eyes, while Robb seemed to favor his mother, with the Tully auburn hair and river blue eyes. At first glance, it seemed hard to believe the two were brothers.

For the first time, Alana felt a sense of longing, deep in her heart, for the kind of love Robb and Jon shared. She had been happy as an only child (perhaps not _happy_, not with Cersei's constant, prickling gaze, but certainly content), but perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to have a sibling, someone who could be her friend, her confidant. But Renly had no other children, and if she had a half brother or sister on her mother's side, it seemed as though she would never know.

Alana's chest ached, and her locket, hidden beneath her dress so that only the fine golden chain was visible, seemed to weigh her down. She fought the urge to reach up and touch it, to stroke her finger along the hinges and the grooves in the metal, to reassure herself it was still there.

Of course it was. She never let it out of her sight, save to sleep and bathe.

"We could go to the Sept," Jon suggested. "The Septon always leaves the doors unlocked, and he lives in Wintertown. He'll never know we were there."

"No," Alana insisted, shaking her head. She may not have the piety of a Septa or the faith of a Quiet Brother, but even she knew the gods would never forgive them for turning a Sept into a place of debauchery. A Sept was meant for worship and prayer, not for drinking and laughter. "How would you feel if we drank in the Godswood?"

Robb shuddered. "I would never agree to that. I always feel like I'm being watched in there." The wind picked up again, though Alana was sure that was not the reason for the tingling chill running down her spine. "It feels like there's a thousand eyes, hidden amongst the leaves."

None of them spoke for a moment, unable to shake out the image of a watcher, concealed between the branches. She had never bothered to visit the Godswood in King's Landing - there was no Heart tree, no bone-white Weirwood, only a great oak, and she could find enough of those in the Kingswood - but she had read more than enough about the Old Gods in the libraries of King's Landing and Storm's End. She knew of the Heart trees and the children of the forest and the White Walkers and the Others. Just as she knew about the Seven and just as she knew about the flames of R'hllor. By reading through the veritable mountain of books housed between the libraries of King's Landing and Storm's End (and, briefly, no longer than a few weeks, at Highgarden).

A thought occurred to her, devious yet not sinful, enough to bring a mischievous smirk upon her face. She leaned in to explain herself to the two brothers.

* * *

The mead burned far worse than anything else Alana had ever tasted, save the Dornish foods Robert had imported on her namedays, the kind that burned for hours after every bite. At least with the Dornish spices, she could chase down the heat with wine or water. With the mead, her only option was to drink more mead.

The library was deserted and dark, the only light coming from the lantern Jon brought as they passed the doors to the Great Hall. They had assured her that the Maester (_Maester Luwin_, as they had called him) lived in the Maester's Turret, which was nearby, yet not in earshot nor visible from his window. Even if he could see the library tower, the lantern light was concealed on all sides by shelves of books, thick tomes filled with the history of House Stark. The aging man would have to hobble all the way down his stairs on his weakened legs, and all but enter the library tower to find them.

Or so they told her. She just had to trust them.

To their credit, it seemed as though they were right, that the Maester fell asleep early, as soon as the sun set, according to Robb. The three had started out silently, passing the wineskins without a word between them, the only noise being the sloshing of the wine as she raised it to her lips. Like a rainstorm, the conversation started began with a few drops, a whispered joke herd and muffled laughter there, until it was a downpour. Every so often, when one of them laughed particularly loudly, they'd fall silent for a pair of heartbeats, listening to see if they were heard, either by the Maester or a noble returning from the Great Hall, until the conversation would resume with hushed voices.

A brief lull arose in the conversation, a comfortable silence, one that didn't leave her desperate to fill with talk. She took a sip of the Arbor Gold, to wash the taste of the mead out of her mouth with the sweetness of the wine. "I spent a lot of time in libraries," she mused, turning her head to take in all the shelves of books in the floor. There were too many to count, the leather on some worn and dusty and torn, and on others new, so new that there was a sheen to it, like light on a glass window. There were less volumes than in either King's Landing or Storm's End, but this was just one floor. The library tower was made of four floors, with each floor crammed more and more full of books than the last. "It's a wonder I haven't tried to become a Maester yet, with all the reading I've done."

"I never spent enough," Robb admitted, taking the Arbor gold for himself and taking a sip. "I always loved learning to fight more." He glanced at Jon, who was nursing the mead. "Jon and I would practice sparring with tourney blades. We still do. But of course for every minute I spent practicing with a sword or a bow, I lost a minute of time to read. I suspect my younger brother Bran can read better than I can." He took another sip of the wine, no more than a swig, and lowered the skin. "What do you like to read?" He asked.

Alana shrugged. "I'll read anything." She frowned for a moment, thinking. "I prefer history. Particularly the history of the Valyrian Freehold." There was something somewhat appealing to learning of the dragonlords of old. Her mother was born into what was once a Valyrian colony, and house Baratheon originated from a Targaryen, who were dragonlords themselves. Valyria was in her blood, and there was something fascinating about the empire (if one was able to ignore how cruel or brutal it was), and its reach unparalleled by any other kingdom.

Beside her, Jon's brow creased, and he spoke, "I thought most of the history books on Valyria were written in High Valyrian. They say that a good translation is worth twice its weight in gold."

Alana nodded. "I tried for years to find a translation, but anyone with one was unwilling to part with it. They are exceedingly rare, and more expensive than you can imagine a book would ever be. Fluent speakers, on the other hand, are quite easy to come by. Comparatively speaking, of course."

"So you had someone translate the texts for you?" Robb asked.

Alana chuckled. "That seems far too simple a solution for my liking. No, I sent for a Maester from the Citadel who knew High Valyrian fluently. He taught me how to speak it."

"You speak High Valyrian?" Robb asked, his eyes wide and mouth agape. "Only the scholars and Targaryens speak High Valyrian."

"My accent is atrocious," she admitted. "But I can read and write it well." She frowned in thought, her finger running along a stray lock of hair loose from the braid. "I _am_ a scholar, of sorts."

"Can you say something in High Valyrian?" Robb asked, raising his eyebrows.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Anything. Doesn't matter. Tell me about Valyria."

Alana paused for a moment, her brow creased as she thought of what she could say. She decided on a common phrase, perhaps even one he might have heard before. She cleared her throat, her eyes closing as she focused on the accent. "_Valyria naena __jēda kessa_." It sounded like flowing water, and, as she always did when she spoke it, Alana felt power coursing through her veins, as though she were a dragonlord of old, as though the diluted Targaryen blood was just beginning to wake.

For a moment, nothing was said. Robb expression was unreadable, but his eyes flickered with something, hidden and guarded, as though the power of the words was just occurring to him. Jon slowly lowered his wineskin. Alana bit the inside of her cheek, cursing her thoughtlessness. Robb's grandfather and uncle were killed by the Targaryens, murdered by Aerys the Mad. And here she'd been, flaunting her Targaryen heritage and speaking the language of the dragons.

Robb opened his mouth for a moment, pausing as he mulled over his words. "What did you say?"

"It doesn't translate well to the common tongue, but it means something along the lines of 'Valyria will last forever.' It was a saying the dragonlords used to tell each other. They thought Valyria would never fall." She was still very painfully aware of the Starks relationship with the Targaryens. "It didn't, of course. The Doom of Valyria came along, and the Targaryens were the only survivors. Now the Targaryens are dead, and Valyria lives on only in its language."

"Does the king know you've learned High Valyrian?" When Alana shook her head, he asked, "What about the queen? Tywin Lannister?"

"No and no. The only people that know are the me and the Maester who taught me, and he passed away years ago."

Robb bit his lip, and added softly, "Perhaps you shouldn't practice your accent around the king. When he came back up from the crypt of my aunt, he was telling my father about how he still hated the Targaryens, loud enough for the whole courtyard to hear. He said he dreamed of killing Prince Rhaegar on the Ruby Ford. If he finds out his niece is practicing the language of the dragonlords..."

"I never speak it," she promised. "I haven't spoken anything aloud in years. It's the mead. It loosens my tongue."

"Don't let Theon catch you saying that," Jon murmured under his breath, raising the mead to take another drink.

Robb cracked a smile that had been missing for too long, until it broke into a grin, laughing and shaking his head. The nobles in the party - the ones she'd overheard, because no highborn would ever catch themselves with a _bastard_ \- had told one another that Lord Stark smiled almost as rarely as Lord Stannis, and that all the Starks were as cold as the Wall, never laughing, always serious.

_They can't have met Robb, then_, she thought. He may be serious, but laughter suited him, the way armor suited her uncle and a scowl suited Cersei. "Am I missing something?" She asked, very aware of the slur at the end of her words. It was not nearly as bad as Robb's (and she thanked the gods her words were less slurred the Jon's), but it was clear the wine was catching up to her. "Who's Theon?"

Robb ran a hand through his hair, biting back laughter. "Theon is... He's a ward, and probably the biggest lech you'll ever meet."

"Aside from my uncle," she added, the thought of the king with a serving girl on his lap coming to mind.

Robb laughed. "Aside from your uncle," he echoed, grinning. "You'll know Theon when you see him. He'll be the one trying to charm his way under your skirts." He frowned. "He always tries with the pretty girls at Winterfell."

Alana smiled, and if she turned a little red, then that was because of the wine, and nothing more.

The light flickered dangerously, the long shadows faltering for the briefest of moments. Jon leaned over and held the lantern to his eye. "Iss almost out of oil," he observed, the slur in his voice more pronounced.

Alana pricked her ears up, listening for the soft, muffled hum of the Great Hall that they had been able to hear when they first entered the tower. "I don't hear the feast anymore." She bit back a yawn. "It's getting late. I ought to head back to my room."

"As should I," Robb added, standing up unsteadily. He raised his hand to help her up, and Alana took it, pulling herself to her feet. His hand was cold, she noticed. Not quite as cold as the icy rain in the Stormlands,but like the chill wind of autumn. _It's still summer_, she thought. _They're only going to get colder._ "I'll see you at the King's tourney tomorrow," he said, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.  
"I'll be there," she responded simply.

Alana took soft, wobbling steps down the staircase leading out of the tower, thanking the Seven that she had decided to wear her leather flats rather than the lady-like heels that her father made her bring (_I'll make you a lady yet,_ he had promised, but he was wrong, she'd never be a lady, not in a thousand years, not even if she was the bastard of the king himself, she'd never be anything more than a bastard). She could stay with Robb and Jon until the sun rose, laughing and whispering until she couldn't keep her eyes open and fell asleep on the cold stone floor, and no matter how they treated her (like a human, she thought bitterly), eventually her little bubble of happiness would pop. The sun would rise. Eventually the royal party would return to King's Landing. Alana would join the Silent Sisters, or maybe go to Dorne, or maybe try to meet her mother in Myr. But she'd never be as noble as her father. As any half-siblings her father would give her.

Alana made the rest of the way downstairs with her head down, deep in her thoughts, focused on making sure each unsteady step wouldn't cast her down the stairs. Every step was soft as a whisper, yet it echoed throughout the staircase, sounding as though the tower was sighing. _What does the tower have to be sad about?_ Alana kicked a stray rock as she stepped out outside, and watched it bounce out of the light of the torches, until all she heard was the sound of it skipping. _Towers aren't bastards_.

She looked up, her gaze flashing between the stone buildings across the courtyard. Almost all the lights were out, save for the torches lit at every doorway. Alana rested her hands on her hips, frowning as she gazed out across Winterfell. She knew her room was in the Keep (she'd have to be quiet when she entered, just in case Cersei hadn't retired to her room yet), but she had lost her sense of where that was when Robb and Jon had led her to the library tower. It was only made harder by the darkness of the night, the shadows as dark as soot. The landmarks she remembered, the stables, the great keep, the crypts, were nearly invisible in the dark.

"You look lost," Robb observed from behind her, and Alana turned to find him helping Jon down the stairs, all but carrying him.

"I'm not lost," Alana insisted, turning back to the courtyard.

"You look lost," he repeated.

"Well I'm not."

Robb sighed. "Are you always this stubborn?" Alana shrugged unwilling to admit anything. Renly had often called her headstrong, though he always smiled when he did. What was wrong with refusing to give in? When she refused to give in, she got what she wanted, and refused to feel ashamed of it.

Robb bit his lip and shifted the weight of Jon on his shoulder. "Then I'll just walk back to my room - which, if you remember, is very close to yours. You're welcome to walk with me if you want to."

He began dragging Jon forward without waiting for her response, but by the way he moved, taking small, unsteady steps, Alana suspected he was waiting for her. _One one-thousand… two one-thousand… three one-thousand… _She counted to three before jogging to his side to catch up, refusing to look at the smug look on his face.

She didn't look at him, but she could have sworn she saw him smiling out of the corner of her eye.

**A/N: Almost forgot, apparently I accidentally said Alana had blue eyes last chapter. A reader corrected me, and I changed it. Just to clarify, Alana has brown eyes.**


	5. Chapter 5

**It's not exactly a frequent update, but I wrote this chapter much faster than the last one. I wanted to make this a short chapter, split the tourney into two separate chapters, but I screwed up and ended up writing the largest chapter I've ever written. Thank you all for your reviews! I'm going to start working on the next chapter right away. Ideally, I'd update again before the end of May, but I don't want to get your hopes up. If you have any questions about the plot, leave a review or send me a private message. I love hearing from readers! Enjoy! **

Chapter 5

Alana had thought that the Great Hall was loud the night before, so full of laughter and toasts, but the roar of cheering from the temporary wooden stands in Wintertown was enough to revive the angry throbbing in her head that had died down since she broke her fast. It was a bright day, though, thankfully, _mercifully_, the light was at her back, with the king and his family positioned in the seats of honor (though Alana was seated quite some distance away, isolated from the royal party, something Alana suspected was done at Cersei's insistence).

The flat dirt field of the tourney grounds was occupied by the archery competition, the first event. The archers were skilled, no doubt, and far better than her (she hadn't even tried to make time to practice in _ages_), but not as skilled as the best archers Robert would invite from Essos, who were accurate enough to send a an arrow through a the wings of a bird (both wings) in flight without killing it.

She had a sinking suspicion that she'd be able to enjoy it more if it weren't for the pounding in her head, and the nausea that had just flared up once more, which she had hoped would go away after she broke her fast. She prayed to the Seven that she wouldn't empty the contents of her stomach before the Royal Party and the Starks.

It was down to the final four archers, and a crowd favorite - a hooded man who identified himself as Robett Cowl of the Wolfswood - released a particularly fine shot into the center of the target, putting him in the lead. In order to tie him, the other archers would be forced to hit the center as well, no easy task considering the distance was ninety paces away, and the wind was still fierce. The crowd burst into applause at this, filling the air with cheers and shouting and whistles, a dreadful noise that only served to make the throbbing nearly unbearable. _How can anyone find this interesting? _She scoffed. _You can't measure a man's skill by his ability to hit a stationary target. You won't know his worth until he's in the heat of battle, with enemies on all sides. Then, you'll find, even the best archers may find their strength fail them._

* * *

She had been woken by the sounds of doors shutting and nobles talking, the general sounds that the sun had risen and the keep was starting to wake. She had rolled back over, closing her eyes and ignoring the dull pulsing behind her temples and the fact that her mouth tasted like death. She had almost fallen back asleep, when her father, in a tone far brighter and happier than he had ever shown in the mornings, pulled back her covers and drew the curtains.

Renly was no stranger to hangovers - he was no drunkard, but when the wine was flowing at weddings or feasts, he'd drink until his face was flushed and his speech was loud and slurred, and when the morning came, he wouldn't rise until midday, with bloodshot eyes and a near permanent scowl - but it seemed as though he had been determined to show his daughter no mercy when she winced at the light and buried her head under a pillow. He had poked her and prodded her and even tried to drag her out of bed, and, when it all failed, came back with a goblet of water. "Robert expects us at the tourney," he had explained as she drank, and she made to respond until she bent over and retched the contents of her stomach (mostly wine and water) into her chamberpot.

It happened every time she drank to excess, the throbbing pain made worse by the light and noise, the vomiting. Yet it seemed she never learned, and always found herself back in her cups by nightfall. _And I'd call that drinking in moderation_, she thought wryly, though she supposed it was moderation compared to the rest of her family. Already, Robert had two empty goblets and was working on a third, and the sun had yet to reach midday.

"How can he even function?" she whispered to her father, shooting a glance at her uncle. "He drank twice as much as I did and he seems perfectly happy."

Renly bit back a smile and leaned in, casting a brief glance over either shoulder. "I suspect he's still drunk," he admitted, and Alana leaned back, smiling to herself.

The crowd fell silent as the dead as the final archer nocked an arrow, drawing back the string and holding it for a pair off heartbeats, holding his arm as steady as stone. If he hit the center, the other two archers would be eliminated, and both he and Robett Cowl would move on to the next round, a shot taken from ten paces further back. For a few moments, nobody moved, and nobody spoke, the only noise coming from the howl of the wind.

Alana knew the moment he released the string that the arrow would not hit the center. It was a fine shot, moving as fast as the blink of an eye, and far better than any shot she had ever taken, but it wasn't enough. The wind picked up almost the moment he let go, and the arrow was blown off course ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. The entire crowd held their breath as it flew, quieter than Alana ever thought hundreds of commoners gathered together could possibly be.

The arrow struck the target, and, just as Alana had suspected, it stuck just outside the innermost circle, leaving Robett Cowl the undisputed champion. A roar began throughout the stands, the sound of everyone gathered cheering and clapping, rising from their seats. Alana raised a hand to massage her temples, the noise making her headache that much worse.

It seemed odd how quickly the smallfolk could go from complete silence to bedlam, an uproar unmatched by anything she had ever heard before, save at other tourneys. _Nothing excites the crowds more than bloodshed_, she observed. Perhaps she could understand why it seemed there would always be war.

Robert stood from his seat, his shadow casting long over the stands, and a hush fell over the crowd, not a silence like the one moments earlier, but the roar calmed, and the only noise was whispers amongst one another. "I declare the winner of the archery competition to be Robett Cowl of the Wolfswood." He hiccupped, and wavered unsteadily. _My gods, he is drunk_. "For his prize, I award him one thousand gold dragons." He raised his goblet of wine, as if to toast the stadium, and began to drink, tilting his head backwards, threatening to knock his crown from his head. When he had finished, he wiped the back of his hand against his lips and announced, "Let the preparations for the jousts begin!"

Unlike the roar after the archery competition, Alana didn't have time to prepare herself for the noise, and it hit her hard, like a knife was digging into her ears. The jousts were always a favorite for tourneys, and the main event, often lasting for days, and it was no surprise the commoners would be excited for it. Afterwards came the melee, Alana's favorite.

There was a beauty in the chaotic violence of the melee, of the dance of hundreds of men with blunted blades attacking one another. It was mesmerising, watching the clash of the trained soldiers (they'd always march in line, advancing as a unit) fighting alongside the _heroes_, as she liked to call them, the soldiers who were skilled on their own but had no idea how to fight as a battle. Sometimes, she'd pick one particular warrior and watch him fight, and other times she'd pretend she was a general, plotting troop movements and which tactics would be to their best advantage.

Sometimes Uncle Robert would fight in the melee. He was most certainly a _hero_, worried more about his own personal glory than for the victory of his team. She hadn't seen him fight in years, not since he put on so much weight, but during the Greyjoy rebellion, just before her sixth nameday, she could remember him training as he mustered his men. While Stannis was gathering supplies for the voyage from King's Landing to the Iron Islands, bringing with him the Royal Fleet, Robert practiced in the courtyard of the Red Keep, swinging his war hammer for the first time since the fall of the Targaryens. She had watched from her window of her room as he practiced, his hammer so heavy it punched through the steel armor of the training dummy like paper, leaving an unrepairable wreck of twisted metal in its wake.

He drank the most during the melees, scarcely paying attention to the battle, focused more on whatever was in the goblet in his hands, his mouth twisted. _He misses the battles_, Alana thought. He was born to win the kingdom, but he wasn't born to rule it.

On the fields, the knights readied themselves, strapping on their armor. _Not knights_, she corrected herself. _Warriors._ They were in the North, and the only knights on the jousting lists would be those Robert brought with him from King's Landing.

She caught a flash of auburn hair between two men, and frowned, thinking it was her imagination, until she saw it again. "I'm going to the field," she muttered to her father, not waiting for his response as she made her way through the stands, weaving through nobles and commoners as she descended the stairs to the lists. "What are you doing down here?" she called out once she reached the bottom, standing on the dirt and grass of the lists.

Robb was facing the other direction, but turned his head as he heard her, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, confusion written across his face until he recognized her. He fought a smile as he responded simply, "I'm entered in the lists."

Alana nodded. "Well I suppose I ought to wish you good luck."

His breastplate was fastened over a layer of mail, the smooth metal shining and flawless and untested. "Thank you," he responded, stiffer than she expected. He seemed fidgety, picking a loose strap on his gauntlet.

She was never very good at tact (or people for that matter, preferring to stay inside and read rather than listen to the pompous lordling brats talk about themselves), but that didn't stop her from taking a deep breath and asking, "Are you nervous?"

"A little," he admitted, continuing his motions with the strap. "I don't want to embarrass myself in front of the king."

"You'll do fine," she reassured him, resting a hand on his to calm him. The leather of his glove was warm from the sunlight, she noticed, so unlike his bare skin from the night before. But last night was different. He was merely helping her up. Now that she was holding his hand (_as a friend_, she half-protested, _to comfort him_), her heart was racing, the pounding in her head replaced by that of her heart. _I'm nervous for my friend_, she thought again, but she was far too smart to believe it, so instead she pushed the budding infatuation to the back of her mind.

His eyes flashed to her hand for a moment, until he slowly let it fall back to his side. "Just aim the lance at the dead center of your opponent's shield," she advised. "If your lance breaks, you win a point. If he falls off, you win the joust."

Robb nodded. "I've jousted before, but never with this many people. And never with the king in attendance."

Alana rolled her eyes. "He rarely pays attention. Tourneys are an excuse for him to drink during the day, and he makes the most of it. Truth be told, I doubt he'd notice you unless you rode your horse up the stands and knocked the goblet of wine out of his hands." It wasn't true, of course, she was exaggerating, but it brought a smile to Robb's face.

A squire, a young boy she had never seen before, pushed past her to hand Robb a helmet, just as smooth as his plate, with a long pointed visor covering his face, leaving only a thin space to see from. It was a jousting helmet, made to deflect a wayward lance, though it would do little good in battle.

"It looks like it's almost time," Alana observed as he tucked the helmet under his arm.

"So it appears," he agreed.

Neither said anything for a few moments, comfortable in each others' silence. It was broken when a knight, wearing a breastplate with two towers separated by a bridge over water (House Frey, she recalled, remembering back during her twelfth nameday feast, when the Lord Walder asked her father to approve a marriage between her and a Frey son twice her age), bumped into her as he made his way towards the king and queen, his helmet tucked under his arm and his hair slicked back with grease. "I forgot about this part of the tourney," she mused, as more and more knights from varying houses began to follow suit. "Now everyone asks a favor from the queen and the princess."

Robb followed her gaze to the queen, who wore a smug smile as knight and Lord alike asked for her favor. She was at home in the attention, acting the perfect lady, smiling and pretending to blush as the men vowed to name her the queen of love and beauty. As always, she was enjoying the attention, pretending to consider their requests before inevitably giving her favor to her brother, Ser Jaime. "She loves the attention," Alana observed. Robb said nothing in response, though Alana couldn't find it in herself to blame him. He was to be a high lord, Lord and Warden of the North, answering only to the king and queen. It was his duty to not speak ill of his queen.

She was lucky, Alana supposed, in that nothing bad had ever come of her rivalry with the queen. Though she had never done anything to the woman (nothing she hadn't deserved, and besides, she spent most of her time avoiding the Cersei rather than antagonizing her), she knew the queen was waiting for an excuse to demand her banishment.

The only time Alana truly feared Robert would exile her came just after she celebrated her sixth name day, her fingers sticky from the lemon cakes and apple crisps and candied ginger, and found herself in Cersei's room. The queen's new dress, crimson red with sleeves made of golden silk that simmered in the sunlight, seemed to call to her, and she ran her fingers along the silk to see if it truly was as soft as it looked. Cersei had raged and screamed until she was red in the face, and Alana had hidden behind Renly, tears streaming down her face. Robert hadn't banished her, though his argument with Cersei was loud enough to be heard all throughout the Red Keep, so full of shouting and threats, while Renly had soothed her and rubbed her back softly.

Yet she had learned from experience that speaking ill of the queen was not enough to convince Robert to banish his niece from court, so Alana took every opportunity she could to make use of her power.

"I've never asked for someone's favor before," Robb remarked, trying to change the conversation to something more pleasant.

"Truly?" Alana asked, tearing her gaze from the queen to look at Robb. "Any tourney is incomplete without them."

"I suppose the North is different then."

Alana played with a loose strand of hair. "I suppose so. A favor is something you ask of a lady. It's usually a handkerchief I suppose. If she agrees to give it to you, it means you're fighting in her name. For her honor. It's in all the love songs and stories and poems." She glanced back at the queen, still smiling smugly, and the princess, who seemed uncomfortable with all the attention, trying to hide behind her mother. "It's a great honor if a lady from a noble house gives you her favor. So obviously everyone fights for the favor of the two most noble women in the realm, the queen and the princess."

Robb nodded slowly. "But anyone can grant a favor?"

"Anyone," Alana confirmed. "Or at least in theory. I've never heard of a lowborn giving her favor to a knight. It's always highborn ladies." She was still frowning at the queen and her self-satisfied grin, the way her mouth would twist when a knight would take her hand, pulling it away as quickly as she could.

Alana didn't look away until she heard Robb clear his throat. She turned to find him on one knee, his face comically serious, fighting the urge to smile. "My lady," he began, his face clear from all emotion. He took her hand in his, and continued, "You would do me the greatest honor if you were to grant me your favor for the tourney."

Alana pulled him back to his feet before giving him a push, gentle and playful but still enough to send him back a few feet. "You're hilarious," she shot back, before mimicking his laughter. "You forget I'm no lady."

"That is true," he agreed, still grinning. "A true lady doesn't empty her stomach so loudly the entire keep could hear her through her door."

For a moment, Alana was speechless. "You _ass_," she snapped. He broke into laughter, bending over and blocking her hands as she began hitting him closed fists, his arms, his chest, his shoulders, anywhere she could reach, though with his armor she suspected it hurt her hands more than it hurt him. "Utter and complete _ass_," she finished her statement by smacking him on the back of the head. "You are no gentleman, Ser." She raised a finger to her chin in thought. "Perhaps I will give you my favor. You're no true gentleman, and I'm no true lady."

He wiped a tear from his eye and straightened, eyeing her hands warily, as if he still expected her to hit him. "That would be wonderful, thank you."

Alana glanced down at her clothing, for something to give him, though it was fruitless. All she had with her was the locket with her mother's painting, and there was no way she was giving that up, even temporarily. She only ever took it off to sleep and bathe. "I don't have anything," she admitted. "This damned dress doesn't have any pockets." She glanced over her shoulder at her father, with his legs crossed as he eyed one of the knights asking for Cersei's favor, a hand raised to idly stroke his beard. A thought occurred to her, and she mused, "My father might have something. I'll be back in a moment."

Renly was seated where she left him, arms crossed as he watched her approach, reclined in his seat. "Do you have anything I can give as a favor?" she asked when she reached the top, her heart racing from the climb.

Renly had been smiling when they entered the stands, uncharacteristically happy (he always went to bed late and woke up late,), but now he was biting his lip, his eyebrows knitted together. "For Lord Stark's son?" he asked, glancing down at Robb.

Alana nodded. "I don't have a handkerchief, and I don't want to give him my locket." For a moment, it seemed as though he was unwilling to move, merely looking her in the eyes with a strange expression, one she had never seen him use before. "Please?" she tried, chewing at her lip.

Renly sighed, dropping his gaze to his hands, twisting a ring loose before dropping it into her hand, a ring which she had never seen him without. He rubbed the finger where he had worn it, the skin paler where the ring had sat. "Robert had that made for me after you were born. He told me I was finally a man."

The metal was cool against her hand, and she raised it to her eyes to inspect it. The band was gold, with the metal twisted and shaped to look like a stag, with the golden antlers wrapped around a black pearl. Black and gold. The colors of her house. Her _father's_ house, she corrected.

"This is too much," she protested, offering the ring back to him in the palm of her hand. "I can't give him this." A ring - any piece of jewelry - could easily be lost in a joust, the metal broken or sullied or simply lost, buried in the dirt beneath the hooves of a horse. Her father had owned that ring since her birth, worn it everyday since she could remember. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if he gave it to her and it was broken in the tourney.

"Your only other alternative is to give him a lock of your hair," he mused, cracking a smile. Alana raised her hand to her hair, as if to reassure herself it was still untouched. Renly knew how much she loved her hair, fighting tooth and nail whenever it needed to be cut. When she was younger, her septa tried to force her to cut it, holding her down in a chair and angrily wielding a pair of scissors. That had resulted in a large particularly scratch down the septa's face where Alana had clawed her, and none since then have dared to cut her hair, which now hung so long it reached the small of her back, when it wasn't bound in a braid. She still saw the septa from time to time at the Sept of Baelor, sulking and scowling as she passed. "I have no doubt you'll bring it back to me unscathed," Renly reassured her, folding her fingers back over the ring. "And your friend Robb is too honorable to steal it."

"Thank you," she all but whispered, her voice hushed and in awe as she stared at the ring in the palm of her hands. Her father may pretend it was no great gift, but she knew how much it meant to him. She was going to return it to him, if it killed her.

He caught her wrist as she turned to leave, and his demeanor had changed, returning to the serious and unplaceable expression. "Please be careful," was all he told her, and released her, leaving her with a feeling, more of a hunch than anything else, that he wasn't worried for his ring.

* * *

The jousting lists began with a Northern man - she had never heard his name before, but she had seen him at the feast, sitting amongst the highborn - against a Frey. The Northman had won on the first tilt, sending the Frey knight into the dirt so hard he was knocked unconscious and had to be dragged off the field, but Alana barely paid attention, her mind elsewhere.

It was not uncommon for a knight to be killed in a joust, with a lance glancing off a shield and piercing the throat or eyes. If it was not uncommon for a trained knight, who had been jousting his entire life, how common was it for someone who had never even jousted with Southerners before?

Renly eyed her bouncing leg, her restlessness, and rested his hand on her knee, as if to calm her. "Your friend will do fine," he reassured her. "He wouldn't have entered if he wasn't skilled."

Alana nodded, if only to humor him. His words were made with the best intentions, but they did little to ease her worry, leaving her as nervous and fidgeting as before.

A Rosby knight rode against the heir to House Cerwyn, with the Rosby knight taking the victory after a bone-shattering second tilt. Alana played with the end of her braid, draped over her shoulder, as the servants cleaned bits of shattered lance from the field. She couldn't keep still, either her feet were tapping or her hands were picking at her hair, but she couldn't just sit patiently and wait.

It came time for the final tilt before Robb rode, a joust between Ser Arys Oakheart, a knight of the Kingsguard, and Ser Loras Tyrell. It was a formidable match, and though Loras had beaten Kingsguard before (he had unhorsed Ser Jaime Lannister himself - much to Robert's enjoyment - and bragged about it the whole way back to King's Landing), he had never jousted Ser Arys.

Loras was likely the better knight (he was Renly's ward, and Alana often watched him practice, wielding his sword as though it were a part of his body), but Arys had been jousting since before the Knight of Flowers was even born. Alana had found, though not through firsthand experience, that a knight skilled at jousting was not necessarily a knight skilled in battle. It seemed, at least in her eyes, that any fool with a horse and a set of armor could pick up a lance and win a joust.

That being said, as she watched Loras and Arys ride towards one another at full gallop, the hooves kicking up a cloud of dirt in their wakes, she wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of one of the lances. The two leveled their lances, and collided with deafening _thwack _of wood on metal. One of their lances must have glanced off the metal rim of the shield, the impact loud enough to send her ears ringing. Somehow, both lances stayed intact, and though Ser Loras seemed knocked off balance (she could hear her father holding his breath, his knuckles white as they clutched the sides of his seat), he righted himself after a pair of heartbeats.

"Loras better win," her father murmured, letting out a sigh of relief as the Knight of Flowers trotted to the other side of the barrier, his lance pointed high in the air. His horse kicked at the ground, stopping and snorting, as eager as his master to joust again. "I bet the Imp a hundred dragons that he'd come out the winner of the entire tourney."

Renly had barely finished speaking when the two rode at each other once more, lowering their lances to chest level and raising their shields, kicking their horses until they were at full speed. A familiar hush seemed to fall over the stands, so quiet that Alana could hear the panting of the horses as they charged.

Loras' lance splintered against Arys' shield, shards of wood flying through the air, raining onto the dirt. He raised a triumphant fist in the air, tossing the hilt of the lance to the ground.

For a moment, it seemed as though he was celebrating his victory too soon, that his hit was merely a point instead of a win, until Arys lost his balance trying to recover, landing with his limbs splayed out in the dirt. The hum of the crowd raised to a roar, particularly amongst the women of the crowd, the lovestruck and hopeful, praying he'd hear their cheers above all others.

Robert cheered loudest of all, trumping even the girls who'd kick and claw their way into his bed, as he rose to clap. He'd had an obsession with the Knight of Flowers after he unseated Jaime Lannister during Joffrey's twelfth nameday tourney, showering him with praise and opportunities to prove himself. In fact, Alana suspected he'd give the Tyrell a place in the Kingsguard in a heartbeat, if there was an opening.

Unfortunately for Robert, it seemed as though there wouldn't be an opening in the Kingsguard just yet, as Arys rose unsteadily to his feet, limping off the field, his shield arm hanging limply at his arm. The wood to his buckler was broken, the boards split and cracked, his house sigil (a golden acorn, she thought, though she couldn't be sure) scratched off, unrecognizable. He tossed the shield to the ground, for a servant to pick up, along with the shards of broken lance littering the field.

It seemed there was no more time to tarry, as Robb began trotting on the field, his face stoic and guarded, a true Stark. His opponent, another Kingsguard, his white cloak billowing in the wind, mounted his horse and lifted his shield, bearing three bronze spearheads on a white background.

Alana prefered to pray in the Sept (if she ever went, for all her faith she still only visited the Sept by her own volition about once a month), preferring to feel the gods' presence around her before she asked for their help, but now she found herself making a silent prayer to the Seven. _Mother, protect your child. Keep him safe._

The Kingsguard knight lifted his lance to the sky, the metal tip glinting in the sunlight, and Alana could have sworn she saw him smile before he lowered his visor, hiding his face. _Warrior, steady his arm._

Above the stands, a flock of ravens circled overhead, thirsty for blood. Alana knew better than to pray to the Stranger. He was already here, lurking in the stands, waiting for a stray lance or a startled horse to claim his victim. Alana prayed that it wouldn't be Robb.

* * *

Once he slid his helmet on, Robb could scarcely hear the cheering of the crowd, the pounding of his heartbeat drowning out all that remained. While he was waiting for Alana to return, he had caught sight of the knight he was to fight, a member of the Kingsguard named Ser Mandon Moore. The man had stared at him, his dead eyes revealing nothing, before he returned to sharpening his dagger (which Robb prayed he wouldn't use during the joust).

The knight was too far away for Robb to see his eyes, all the way on the other side of the field, but he suspected the man still wore the same, lifeless expression, and that his eyes were just as cold as before. He doubted all the gold in the world would soften his heart.

He pulled back on the reins, tugging the horse to a stop. The barrier was to his left, closest to his shield. He'd have to turn his body to aim his lance, but without his shield, he was in danger of being skewered, bleeding to death on the field.

Robb turned towards the king, and what seemed like half a world away, Ser Moore was doing the same. Neither moved, though the horses kicked at the ground, snorting, eager and impatient.

King Robert raised his hand, holding it still for a moment as the cheering of the crowd seemed to die down, before dropping his arm. Robb kicked his horse forward, and the last sight he had of king Robert was the man raising his goblet of wine to his lips.

He couldn't hear the crowd cheering - though he could see them through the slits of his visor - but he could hear the thundering of the horse's footsteps on the dirt, feel the vibrations dance up his arm. He could barely hold onto his lance, and he knew without looking that the tip was shaking above his head.

All at once, he couldn't hear anything but the pounding of his heart. The ring he wore around his neck bounced back and forth, loose between his coat of mail and his chestplate. _I should have worn it beneath everything_, he thought, his mind racing. It seemed as though time were slowing down, as though the gods themselves were intervening. How could people do this for fun?

Alana would never forgive him if it broke, though she hadn't said as much. She tied it around his neck, explaining how it was a gift to her father, and afterwards he looked her in the eyes and saw her discomfort, the way she hugged him gingerly that told him she was afraid it would break. He should have taken it off and given it back to her, knowing she would never be able to relax, always worried that the cord would snap or the metal would twist beyond repair. But he had been selfish, eager to wear her favor, to fight for her honor. The honor of a bastard.

_If I survive this,_ Robb thought as Moore neared, both horses running at full speed,_ I'll give this back to Alana before it breaks in the next round_. He lowered his lance, and aimed it directly at Moore's shield, just as his father had instructed, tucking the hilt beneath his arm, raising his shield.

The point of his lance did not waver as he approached, moving until he was close enough to see through the slit in Moore's visor, see his dead eyes full of determination. Their lances hit, and the last thing Robb remembered before his vision went dark was the sound of splintering wood, and a searing pain in his shoulder.

* * *

Robb's vision was blurred, and he could faintly feel hands tugging at his head, his arms. He tried to sit up, but couldn't muster the strength, collapsing back to the dirt with a groan. He felt like he was weighed down, like he had a boulder on his chest. _My armor_, he realized, and raised a hand to pull off his helmet.

Immediately, he was met with a sharp, stabbing pain in his left shoulder, so painful he couldn't hold back a groan of pain. "He's awake," someone called, their voice muffled, and his helmet was pulled off his head, wincing away from the light. He felt as though he had woken up from a long night of drinking, his head pounding as she shrank away from the light. The only thing that was missing was the awful taste in his mouth.

"Thank the gods," came another voice, and Robb recognized it as that of his father. He opened his eyes weakly, and was greeted by the faces of half of the court, his mother and father at his side (his mother had a hand to her chest, and she looked as though she'd nearly fretted to death, her brow wrinkled), with the king resting his hands on his hips, stricken. Cersei was nowhere in sight, presumably back in her seat.

"I lost," Robb noted, allowing his head to fall back to the dirt. The stabbing pain in his shoulder had dulled to a slight throbbing, enough that he could almost ignore it.

"Not exactly," came another voice, and Robb turned his head to see Alana standing above him, a hollow smile on her face. She raised a finger towards the other side of the field, towards a circle of people that had gathered behind the barrier. They were gathered around Ser Mandon Moore, who was sitting on the ground, his armor mangled and twisted. Lying beside him was a shattered buckler, the wooden boards cracked, with a long shard of a lance sticking out. "After you fell, Ser Moore fell as well. The tilt was a draw."

"His buckler was poorly made," Robert added, glancing at the knight's shield, broken and useless, on the dirt. "If your lance hit between the plates of his armor, you could have killed him." Robb swallowed the lump in his throat, and dropped his gaze. "You two will have to have another joust," Robert continued.

Robb tried to sit up, and winced as the dull throbbing picked up into a sharp stab. He cursed under his breath. "Are you alright?" Alana asked, resting a hand on his shoulder to keep him from trying to rise again.

"It's my shoulder," Robb admitted, propping himself up on his right elbow, his left arm still lying limply on the dirt. "Every time I move it, it hurts."

"Come on," she encouraged, holding out her hand to help him up. "I'll take you to the Maester's."

Robb was very aware of the fact that both of his parents, the king, and Lord Renly were all watching silently. He had become friendly with Alana quickly, and it seemed that the smiles they'd send each other when they thought nobody else was looking, the way they'd always seem to gravitate towards the other's presence hadn't gone unnoticed after all.

He took her hand and she pulled him to his feet, her brow creasing as she strained against the weight of the plates and mail he wore. He could still feel eyes on him, and he felt his face heat up. He had no intentions of sitting through another conversation with his father about how much dishonor another Stark bastard would bring, nor did he need to be told his mother disapproved of his friendship with Alana, his friendship with any bastard. "You're still unfamiliar with Winterfell," he pointed out. "I'll be fine on my own. Enjoy the rest of the tourney."

A brief look of hurt flashed across Alana's face, and Robb could feel guilt in the pit of his stomach, but she only nodded in agreement.

It was that look of hurt, betrayal even, that Robb thought about as he entered the gates of Winterfell some time later. He told himself that he didn't care about bastardry, that Jon was his best friend and that he loved him as much as Bran or Rickon or Arya or Sansa, but that hadn't stopped him from avoiding Alana, and all because she was a bastard. If she had been the trueborn daughter of Renly, perhaps he wouldn't have cared of the whispers that would spread when he spent time with her (and there would be whispers, there was no doubt about that, any unmarried man and woman spending time together would provoke whispers).

As he knocked on the door to the Maester's chambers, his left arm hanging limply at his side, he cursed himself for pushing Alana away, when she only wanted to help. _I'm going to be Lord of the North_, he thought angrily. _Why should I care what others think?_ If his father felt the need to speak with him, or if his mother chewed her lip every time she saw the two together, so be it.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon by the time Alana arrived back at her room, and though the sun hadn't set yet, it was lazily sinking lower and lower in the sky. The tourney was over for the day, due to resume tomorrow, likely to finish. Afterwards would come the melee, which Alana was looking forward to. Thoros of Myr, a Red Priest, had accompanied Robert to Winterfell, though he had spent nearly the entire trip so far jumping from brothel to brothel, tavern to tavern. He was a man slave to his vices, but he was also one of the best warriors in the realm, and Alana's favorite fighter, with a habit of setting his sword aflame in the middle of the melee. There was no doubt in her mind that he'd be participating in the melee, though, if he won, he'd spend the entire reward on whores before the month was over.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts, her eyes watching the floor in front of her, she didn't notice Robb until she nearly bumped into him. He was leaning against her door, his arm wrapped in crisp white bandages, a smile spreading across his face as she looked up at him.

"What did the Maester say about your shoulder?" she asked, biting her lip.

Robb glanced back down at his arm, as though he was just remembering it was injured. "The hit must have dislocated it. He popped it back into place - which hurt like you wouldn't believe - and wrapped it up. I'm not supposed to use my arm for a few weeks, so it appears Ser Moore has won the joust after all." He smiled wryly. "Truth be told, I'm not exactly broken up. I wasn't looking forward to facing him again."

"I suspect he feels the same about you," she mused. "You made quick work of his shield." The shard of his lance had snapped the boards of Ser Moore's buckler, sending the sharpened wood against the plate armor. The older knight had escaped with only a long scratch along his chestplate, just above his heart, where the wood had scraped and splintered the metal. Had it hit the gap between the breastplate and the pauldron, just a few inches to the left, all that would have stood between sharpened wood and flesh would have been a thin layer of mail.

His gaze grew distant, his mouth twisting unpleasantly. Alana wondered if his mind was back on the lists, if he was even aware of how close he came to killing Ser Moore. _Just a few inches to the left, the twitch of his arm, and Robert would have a bloodstained white cloak to give to Loras._

"Do you have my father's ring?" she asked, before he got too deep in his own musings, before the conversation turned grim. For a brief moment, he said nothing, and hunted through his pockets, leaving her to wonder if it was still in the dirt of the lists. Her heart began to hammer in her chest, as she began to run through all the possible ways it could have been lost or destroyed. _Trampled, shattered, crushed, cracked..._

His hands flew to his neck, and he reached under his shirt and removed a necklace, the ring wrapped tight in the cord, and placed it into her hands. "I know how much the ring meant to you," he explained. "So I kept it as safe as I could."

"Thank you," Alana responded, letting out a breath of relief, eyeing the ring and tracing the intricate designs with her finger, still warm from his body. When she raised her gaze, she realized he was staring at her, his eyes locked onto hers, his expression revealing nothing. For a few moments, she was content to keep silent, the quiet giving her the peace she so desperately needed after spending the day at the tourney, the cheering so loud she could have sworn her ears were still ringing.

There was something in their gaze, something she couldn't quite place, a sort of intensity, and she found she couldn't hold his gaze, dropping her gaze to her shoes. Robb cleared his throat, and the moment was broken. "Who won the tourney?" he asked, though it was smalltalk, little things that meant nothing to either one of them. The type of talk that could go on for hours with neither party learning anything meaningful.

"Nobody yet," she answered, just as meaninglessly. "The jousts will finish tomorrow. Then the melee starts."

Robb frowned, raising a hand to his jaw to rub the the thin stubble that had grown since she first met him. In a couple more weeks, he'd have a beard, as red as his hair. "The melee?"

Alana's eyebrows rose. "Have you never heard of a melee before?" The North didn't have nearly as many tourneys as the South, she had learned from a dusty tome written by a southern Maester who lived in the North (eventually dying of the cold, and the irony was _certainly _not lost on her), but surely the Starks had heard of the melee before. It was as important to the tourney as the jousting itself.

Robb shook his head. "I know what a melee is. I haven't been to many tourneys, and the melees I've seen haven't had any more than ten men on the field at once. I just didn't think there were enough men willing to join to have a melee at Winterfell."

"I love the melee," Alana confessed. "It can run with only a few knights, though it's far more interesting when there are too many to count. It's truest test of skill, outside of an actual battle. No lances, no horses, no jousts. Just metal and wood and bone." She smirked, and, knowing his fierce devotion to the North, added, "You'll see Southern steel in action. It'll be what knocks out most of the Northerners."

Robb laughed, disbelieving, shaking his head. "If anyone will win the melee, it will be a Northerner."

"Oh really?" Alana challenged, planting her hands on her hips. "How confident in that are you? Enough to bet on it?" Alana didn't gamble often, turning her nose up at the dice games at nearly every brothel across Westeros, but she allowed herself the vice of betting on fights. She had a knack for picking the winner, whether it was in a one on one fight between two drunkards in an alley, or in the whole melee.

Robb thought for a moment, biting his lip, before, perhaps against his better judgement, replying, "Fine. If I lose, I will admit that you are right."

Alana shook her head. "That's not enough, though it will be nice." She paused for a minute to think, her finger rising to her chin. There was nothing physical she wanted from him, no gold or sword that he was willing to part with. Yet she was unwilling to claim victory with only her pride to show for it, no matter how sweet victory would taste. "If I win, you owe me a favor. Anything I want. And if you win, I owe you a favor."

"Alright," Robb agreed, a smile spreading across his face. He pushed himself off her door to let her by. "I hope you're ready to owe me a favor."

Alana snorted. "I wouldn't act too confident if I were you. It'll be that much more humiliating when I'm right."

Even as Robb left and she entered her room, the curtains still closed from when she had left earlier in the morning, her thoughts remained on the cocky smile Robb wore as he sauntered away. Even with his back to her, she could have sworn he was still grinning, as though somehow she could tell simply by his footsteps. It wasn't until minutes later, when her mind turned to other topics, that the smile she wore in his presence slowly began to fade from her face.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Until next time! If there was anything you liked/disliked, be sure to let me know**


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